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The smaller brazen sentinel stands, too,
And when I look on it, I perforce rue
That I lack skill that will cause it to do
That task for which it long ago was cast.
Better hands than mine worked in its past,
Conducing to a glory now long passed.
For blunter tasks my hands are clearly made,
And blunter than those in my chosen trade,
Which I leave off, since it me has betrayed
If there is loyalty when none is sworn.
The smaller sentinel looks on, forlorn,
And waits for one who has perhaps been born
Who it might take up and tend as befits--
For now, however, it often merely sits.