Cold man, in whom no animating ray Warms the chill substance of the sculptor's clay; Grim Reasoner, with problems in your eyes, Professor, Sage -- however do they call you? Far-seeing Blindman, fame shall yet befall you; Carve you in stone -- that Winter of the wise! -- And set you up in some pale portico To frown on heaven above, on earth below. I shall make songs, and give them to the breeze, And die amid a thousand ecstasies! I shall be dust, and feel the joyous sting Of that sweet arrow from the bow of Time Which men call Spring. And out of my dead mouth a rose shall come like rhyme! But you, in your eternal state of snows, Shall thrill no more to life's resurgent flood, Nor cast death's laughter into April's rose! You shall be marble, who were never blood. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE TENTH MUSE: THE PROLOGUE by ANNE BRADSTREET THE PARADOX by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE HILL WIFE: LONELINESS by ROBERT FROST ULTIMA VERITAS by WASHINGTON GLADDEN THE CAGED SKYLARK by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS CAMPS OF GREEN by WALT WHITMAN |