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Show PREFACE TO CREATION I am spent, white-bled, As if in giving birth. My creation's hungry lips Have drained my all- My marbled word, my song, My sculptured phrase, my dance, My chiselled thought-into its being And I am nothing left. Look then on it and not on me, For I am naked on a slab, Vulnerable, for all to see. What I have wrought I cannot know. Judge it. Weigh it harshly now, With none of mercy, less of pity. Let it stand or fall On its own strength. So t ry your talons on its flesh. Oh, if it tears, I groan, But if you place it on a pedestal I sit, crowned, upon a throne. |