Favorite Poems

Back                        Next page

This author is unknown (beyond his name).  He may have been a local poet who never gained national recognition.

                 The Sculptor

I stood within his dingy room,

where dwarfed flowers tried to bloom;

where cobwebs hang in grey festoons;

where spiders web their silk cocoons.

And bind them to the rafters high

by flimsy cords before they die.

Some marble blocks stood round about,

unpolished, crude throughout.

No form nor shape could I decry,

or hint of beauty in my eye.

The sculptor came, he stood apart,

and gazed his vision gifted art.

He seized a mallet that was nigh,

and then a chisel caught his eye.

With these crude tools he worked his will,

portrayed to me a master skill.

The stone book formed, I saw his face,

revealed in pulchritude and grace.

Oh God, if just a son of thine,

can make an image so divine,

pick up your chisels, mallets too,

for great sculpturing you can do.

Make out of me this day of mine

a sculptured masterpiece of thine.

                               J. F. Houck

                               Date unknown
 

Back                         Next page