Classic Poem

He stood before his finished work;
His heart beat warm and high;
But they who gazed upon the youth
Knew well that he must die.

For many days a fever fierce
Had burned into his life;
But full of high impassioned art,
He bore the fearful strife.

And wrought in extacy and hope
The image of his brain;
He felt the death throes at his heart,
But labored through the pain.

The statue seemed to glow with life—
A costly work of art;
For it he paid the fervent blood
From his own eager heart.

With kindling eye and flushing cheek
But slowly laboring breath,
He gazed upon his finished work,
Then sought his couch of death

And when the plaudits of the crowd
Came like the south wind's breath,
The dreamy, gifted child of art
Had closed his eyes in death.