Classic Poem

Sculpture's great mother was the rock-crowned crest:
The frozen granite was her prophet old;
In blazoned bronze her lyric praise was told;
With molding clay was her fair body dressed.

My chisel is of steel whose flash is manifest
As arrows flying past a sun of gold.
I am the God of Art: the athlete bold,
Proud chiseler of beauty pure and blessed.

Time crumbles not the shapings of my hands.
Under the feet of my great Moses stands
Man, trembling as before a presence mighty.

'Tis I whose hammer-blows, mid hurtling chips,
Out of the block made rise from heel to lips
The curves implacable of Aphrodite.