Classic Poem

E'en as the sculptor chisels patiently
The marble's jagged edges, day by day,
Striving to smooth all blemishes away,
Till—when from ev'ry flaw the stone is free,
And naught save perfect contours does he see—
Embodied harmony and beauty may
Atone for all the weary hours' delay,—
So Life, the sculptor, moulds unceasingly
The soul of man. How often in recoil
The spirit shrinks, nor can through prescience know
Of coming grace and majesty. 'Tis willed
The scars should deeper be, until the toil
And chiseling are adequate; when lo!
God's all-unfathomed plan is quite fulfilled.