Classic Poem

Life springs from Death inert, at your command,
A rugged mass is fashioned into grace,
And the dumb spirit in the marble face
Is beckoned earthward by your magic hand.

Heroes and warriors of our native land
Live in the Paros Time can not erase,
And in your studio, like a sainted place,
The hosts of marble dream, serene or grand.

The silent sons and daughters of your brain
Honor the halls of many a home of arts,
Or on broad thoroughfares in pride arise.
But when you pass them by in sun or rain,
You do not hear the throbbing of their hearts,
Nor see the grateful glory in their eyes!