WHEN I am dust you cannot say I died. My soul is made of granite and I know That beauty's hands will work it till it grow Deathless in form. . . . A stormy sea that cried Has chiseled the rough surface, and a ledge Of sand and sun has cut it to a shape Pagan as Rodin. A great scraggly cape Whirling with water, shouting with russet sedge, Marked it with rapture. It has felt the lands Where gnarled oaks lean and sway against the night It has been touched by chrysoprase and white. It has felt hills across whose sprawling length The silent gray is draped. . . These are the hands That will add lasting strength unto its strength. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PORTRAIT OF A BABY by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET CONTRA MORTEM: THE NOTHING I by HAYDEN CARRUTH SONG OF TWO CROWS by HAYDEN CARRUTH A POEM FROM THE EDGE OF AMERICA by JAMES GALVIN DOWN BY THE CARIB SEA: 4. THE LOTTERY GIRL by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON |