the sculptor's dream of home.
79
Give place to time-stained walls of massive stone:
The low, sweet murmur of his sister's voice
Hath passed, like music from the wind-harp's string;
Far o'er the booming billow lies his home,
And he is in his studio—alone.
The low, sweet murmur of his sister's voice
Hath passed, like music from the wind-harp's string;
Far o'er the booming billow lies his home,
And he is in his studio—alone.
