Rodin, who thinks in close proximity
to your bronze man in awkward pose of thought,
do they disturb your vast serenity
bone-weary from the battles they have fought?
Your thinker is the poet at the gates
of Hell, from Dante and Medici you
have borrowed epic themes of mortal hates,
so to our own, we come for closer view.
But don’t you ever yearn to hang a sign?
Do not confuse the sculptor with the man,
nor hope through contemplation that we’ll find
what flows through you by God’s well-chosen plan.
The shadow of a poetess may cool,
but only Love can resurrect a fool.
© Elaine Stirling, 2013