Classic Poem

And thorns, but did the sculptor spare
Sharp steel upon the marble, ere,
After long vigils and much care
And cruel discipline of blows,
From the dead stone the statue rose?

Think you I grudge the seed, who see
Broad armed the consummated tree?
Or would go back if it might be
To some old geologic time
With Saurians wallowing in fat slime,

Before the rivers and the rains
Had fashioned, and made fair with Plains
And shadowy places fresh with flowers,
This green and quiet world of ours.

Where, as the grass in Springtime heals
The furrow of the winter's wheels,
Serene maturity conceals
All memory on the perfect earth
Of the bygone tempestuous birth.