HEW hard the marble from the mountainís heart Where hardest night holds fast in iron gloom Gems brighter than an April dawn in bloom, That his Memnoniah likeness thence may start Revealed, whose hand with high funereal art Carved night, and chiselled shadow: be the tomb That speaks him famous graven with signs of doom Intrenched inevitably in lines athwart, As on some thunder-blasted Titanís brow His record of rebellion. Not the day Shall strike forth music from so stern a chord, Touching this marble: darkness, none knows how, And stars impenetrable of midnight, may. So locms the likeness of thy soul, John Ford.
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