As Pygmalion

[Pilgrim]

O Maiden fair! O Apparition!
Bound by love and superstition,
slowly, as these lines were written,
enraptured, was the poet smitten,
captured, by your beauty, was he,
sitting, wishing for one moment,
you would come and ease his torment,
and awaken from this dormant
sleep, within this rhyme and sonnet,
from the sheet and ink upon it,
and like a tragic tale of magic,
walk in through his chamber door,
like Galatea in days of yore,
Oh Eleanor, My Eleanor,
in my mind and nothing more...

Hello, Zerric.

Let’s see. Pygmalion was a sculptor who, while not generally interested in women, fell in love with a statue he had created. Thereafter, having made offerings to Venus and secretly wished for a bride who would be just like the statue, found on his return home that his wish had been granted. Etc …

So, really, it was a sculptor rather than a poet who was smitten. Which might (or might not) suggest some textual changes to your poem.

For some (mandatory) nits, I thought some of your rhymes were a little forced, and there seemed to be some disconnection between the coming in and the going out of your poem as a whole. But perhaps I was missing something?

Regards,

Pilgrim.