'I hear my comrades' tools at busy morn', The youthful sculptor said; 'but my poor name Must die, like some poor babe that dies unborn, While they may follow Phidias in his fame; I may not lift my head above the crowd; My marble visions are dissolving fast; My dream of art flits like some snow-white cloud From weary eyes, that watch it to the last, Before they sleep; and thou, my last design! Wherein I fondly hoped would reappear The model glories of the Belvidere, With his proud-postured grace in every line; 'Tis time I learn'd, while slowly fading here, To study lowlier attitudes than thine.' | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SPARROW HARK IN THE RAIN (ALEXANDER STEPHENS HEARS NEWS) by EDGAR LEE MASTERS IN PICCADILLY by ISAAC ROSENBERG BALLAD OF THE LORDS OF OLD TIME by FRANCOIS VILLON WHEN MALINDY SINGS by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR HOMAGE TO THE BRITISH MUSEUM by WILLIAM EMPSON |