As Pygmalion

Maiden fair, across the distance,
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...