THEY sing, the bards, in many a lyric cry The passion of the eagle's wing, of trees That lash the unruly air, of waves That thunder. But what bard has risen to sing The unexpressive passion of mute stone Or grief that hides in immobility? And yet I doubt not in pale marble, cold And insensate as it may seem, there lurks A yearning that its cool and quiet stone Most utterly belies -- a yearning bold As any mortal knows -- to run the hills Even as a young wolf, or know the joy Of a wind tiptoeing over roses Or a shy bank of lilies at white noon, Or go as water on a long descent Careless and singing. And in some mad hour Of the earth's deep passion this stone will shatter Into fine dust upon the startled air, And take that motion which a marble mould So long denied its spirit, and go forth Exultant -- with all the mocking stillness Of its age-long prison a strange memory. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CHAMBER MUSIC: 28 by JAMES JOYCE SHADOW-CASTING by JAMES GALVIN HOUSE WITH THE MARBLE STEPS by AMY LOWELL THE EXPANDED COMPOSITION by CLARENCE MAJOR A JOYFUL SONG OF FIVE by KATHERINE MANSFIELD BROTHERHOOD (2) by EDWIN MARKHAM ESSAY: AT NIGHT THE AUTOPORTRAIT AT NIGHT by ELENI SIKELIANOS |