The thing itself was rough and crudely done, Cut in coarse stone, spitefully placed aside As merest lumber, where the light was worst On a back staircase. Overlooked it lay In a great Roman palace crammed with art. It had no number in the list of gems, Weeded away long since, pushed out and banished, Before insipid Guidos over-sweet And Dolce's rose sensationalities, And curly chirping angels spruce as birds. And yet the motive of this thing ill-hewn And hardly seen did touch me. O, indeed, The skill-less hand that carved it had belonged To a most yearning and bewildered brain: There was such desolation in the work; And through its utter failure the thing spoke With more of human message, heart to heart, Than all these faultless, smirking, skin-deep saints, In artificial troubles picturesque, And martyred sweetly, not one curl awry -- Listen; a clumsy knight, who rode alone Upon a stumbling jade in a great wood Belated. The poor beast with head low-bowed Snuffing the treacherous ground. The rider leant Forward to sound the marish with his lance. You saw the place was deadly; that doomed pair, The wretched rider and the hide-bound steed, Feared to advance, feared to return -- That's all! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 93. AL-NOOR by EDWIN ARNOLD DARTMOOR: SUNSET AT CHAGFORD: RESPONDENT DHMIOURGOS by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN SELLING A COW IN VERMONT by DANIEL LEAVENS CADY CANZONE: HIS LAMENT FOR SELVAGGIA by CINO DA PISTOIA THE TWO FOUNTS; ADDRESSED TO A LADY ON HER RECOVERY ... FROM PAIN by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE THE SUPPER by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE |