Little silver goddess
Cast with love and care
And shined and finished
Til you shown pure and white
And flawless from the artist’s hand…
What elements conspired
To ruin your beauty
And efface the brilliant surface
Of your graceful gracious form?
What corrosive influence
Has marred your face
And stained your bosom to its heart?
For want of care and kindness
You are weakened, blighted, maimed…
I weep for you, tiny, helpless icon.
Yet how much sadder
If instead of argent ore
Your form was flesh and blood—
Your conscience formed
And all your faculties acute.
Who then would bear the blame
For your dissolution?
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