OFT round my hall of portraiture I gaze, By Memory reared, the artist wise and holy, From stainless quarries of deep-buried days. There, as I muse in soothing melancholy, Your faces glow in more than mortal youth, Companions of my prime, now vanished wholly, The loud, impetuous boy, the low-voiced maiden. Ah, never master that drew mortal breath Can match thy portraits, just and generous Death, Whose brush with sweet regretful tints is laden! Thou paintest that which struggled here below Half understood, or understood for woe, And with a sweet forewarning Mak'st round the sacred front an aureole glow Woven of that light that rose on Easter morning. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AT CASTERBRIDGE FAIR: 6. A WIFE WAITS by THOMAS HARDY THE FIRST THANKSGIVING DAY [1621] by MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON LOVE'S SECRET NAME by JOHN ARTHUR BLAIKIE LOVE IS A STAR by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE PIETRO OF ABANO by ROBERT BROWNING THE WANDERER: 2. IN FRANCE: PROGRESS by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |