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...NIGHT AND DAY: 4 by ISAAC ROSENBERG WHEN FIRST MY WAY by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN EUMARES by ASCLEPIADES OF SAMOS THE WINTER-SPRING by JOSEPH BEAUMONT EPITAPH FOR ROBERT AIKEN by ROBERT BURNS WIND IN THE CYPRESS by MARY BEALE CARR THE CANTERBURY TALES: PROLOGUE TO SIR THOPAS by GEOFFREY CHAUCER |