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OTHER VERSE |
117 |
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" That sculptor of the olden time, Who with a godlike art Carved into life A minx of strife, Who broke his loving heart,
" Did better far than this, for he Could proudly say, at least: ' Its beauty's there ; 'Tis strong and fair'— My mold was but a beast.
" The city grew at such a pace That I was lost therein;
The smallest clown
Within the town Would pass me with a grin.
" My spirit, enterprise and zeal Were all forgotten, quite,
And men, for self,
To gather pelf Had squeezed me out of sight.
" But here, within these classic halls, With loving friends I meet, In royal fete The ■ third estate,' In art and soul's retreat." |
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