HOW sad a glance, how shrunk a face thou hast Michael sublime, old shaper of rude stone! Never a tear have those sad eyelids shown; Thou hast gazed like Dante on all mirth aghast. The Muse did suckle thee too well, and fast Art hath espoused thee, thou art hers alone; Thro' threescore years of toiling thou hast known No solace save on her chill bosom vast. Thy life knew but one blessing: even as God To seal the rock with thine immortal might; And fearful were the feet that nigh thee trod. Like to a lion with wild mane grown white, When thy worn life drew to its period Renowned but weary thou didst leave the light. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE POET; SONNET by AMY LOWELL THE BELLS OF SHANDON by FRANCIS SYLVESTER MAHONY WHO WALKS WITH BEAUTY by DAVID MORTON TO MY FIRST LOVE, MY MOTHER by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI FRANCE; THE 18TH YEAR OF THESE STATES by WALT WHITMAN PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 47. AL-HAKIM by EDWIN ARNOLD |