You saw the vision in the face of clay,
And fixed it through the magic of a hand
Obedient unto the will’s command,
In forms impervious to Time’s decay:
Historian of bloods that interplay
Confusedly within a cryptic land,
You’ve chiseled, and your work of art shall stand
To gem the archives of a better day.
Alone, far from the touch of kindred mind,
You’ve mounted with a grim, determined zeal,
Despite environment austere, unkind,
Or frozen-fingers clenched to your appeal,
You’ve held the ardor of your first ideal,
Robed in a queenly majesty, resigned.