Classic Poem

You with bronze eyes,
Who never move, or move at last
As statues seem to move by fancy's trick;
Idol in guise;

Curious lamp, wan, chiselled, without wick;
Heart fixed and sealed
And, like your beauty, cast,
But unrevealed;

How should it be, if, at a touch, you felt?
Would metal melt?

I know that he, whose spark
Might chance upon the mark,
Would meet in you such wild and perilous light
As Helen beaconed through the Trojan night,
An instant, and be blind;
And wake to find
The old, the brazen sight
And unperturbed cold image without mind.