Lass Of Marble
What a sublime statue madeAnd curved by sculptor;
When spied a poet,
Deeply admired on every spur
As if a mingling touch in love,
And shock in the heart.
No sense overflow in the statue's heart.
The poet murmurs,
For the labor in that trance,
Alas! He feels and ashamed,
The sculptor forgot to shape
A heart and glance,
Poet feels so sad for falling,
In love with a heartless;
But with poems, he shares
The edicts of love endless.
And devoted love unfurls
His cores nevertheless
Inferior to adolescence shape
Of lass smile less and speechless.
Poetry by Tsewang Dorjee9
Read 419 times
Written on 2007-03-12 at 08:51
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