When I awake from this long sleep
what shall my eyes behold?
My pillow is a willow wreath,
My bed a slab of stone.
The willow dips to greet the morn
And glistens now with glee,
The stone the rising sun ignores,
Immobile yet at peace.
The sculptor when he fashioned me
Could never reach my heart.
Why then do I feel it beat?
Slow is the hour of art.