Sculpture

A funny little block of stone once stood Around,—it might have been but clay or wood So nondescript its value; no one could Have deemed it fair.

Chisels in careless hands there—passing by, Struck blindly—tell me, can cold marble cry?— Not with malice but indifference—why Did blades cut deep?

Sometimes the touch of gentle hands would bring A rounding curve—tell me, can marble sing?— And all the bitterness of years take wing When beauty calls?

A statue there was hidden all the while! Did chance give it the charms that so beguile, For on its face is carved the strangest smile— I wonder why? . . .