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...THE FLAG GOES BY by HENRY HOLCOMB BENNETT THE LOVE SONNETS OF PROTEUS: 88. A DAY IN SUSSEX by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT THE PATRIOT; AN OLD STORY by ROBERT BROWNING THE YELLOW VIOLET by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT THE USE OF FLOWERS by MARY HOWITT WE ARE SEVEN by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE OLD FERRYMAN by ANTIPHILUS OF BYZANTIUM THE ART OF PRESERVING HEALTH: BOOK 4. THE PASSIONS by JOHN ARMSTRONG |