JOHN FORD

Hew hard the marble from the mountain's heart

Where hardest night holds fast in iron gloom

Gems brighter than an April dawn in bloom,

That his Memnonian 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 Titan's 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 looms the likeness of thy soul, John Ford.