So for the little while that you remain, In spite of sure decay, an unscarred curve Of terrible granite, or the naked nerve Of steel that severs cleanly, without pain -- Leaving the startled victim without moan Until the swordsman vanishes from sight And the wound wakes to torture in the night -- So for this little while I am your own. But when I am made conscious of green mould Upon the granite, or a sheath of rust Upon the steel, I shall rise and fling Myself against the pressure of your dust, Seeking the beauty that is never old, Which I shall find, if I find anything. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SUNSET by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON IN WALKED BUD WITH A PALETTE by CLARENCE MAJOR NOTHING WILL CURE THE SICK LION BUT TO EAT AN APE' by MARIANNE MOORE TO WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS ON TAGORE by MARIANNE MOORE TO A CASTILIAN SONG by SARA TEASDALE |