Behold what hap Pygmalion had to frame And carve his proper grief upon a stone; My heavy fortune is much like the same: I work on flint, and that's the cause I moan. For hapless, lo, ev'n with mine own desires, I figured on the table of my heart The fairest form the world's eye admires, And so did perish by my proper art. And still I toil to change the marble breast Of her whose sweetest grace I do adore, Yet cannot find her breathe unto my rest; Hard is her heart, and woe is me therefore. O happy he that joyed his stone and art; Unhappy I, to love a stony heart. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WE FACE THE FUTURE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON AN INDIGNATION DINNER by JAMES DAVID CORROTHERS THE REMEDY WORSE THAN THE DISEASE by MATTHEW PRIOR THE IMAGE OF GOD by FRANCISCO DE ALDANA THE LAST REVIEW by EMILY J. BUGBEE ASCENDING FOOTSTEPS by JOSEPHINE BYINGTON |