Not for my skilless hand that fond deceit He knew, whose pious heart kindled to paint On high cathedral walls a deathless saint, And for her face and form find beauty meet. Ah, what face can his brush, bewitched, repeat, Save hers for whom his temples throb and faint? So kneeling ages make their holy plaint In lowly worship at his mistress' feet. No, my poor love must run an earthly pace, Nor borrow adoration from a shrine To light thy steps down an immortal way. Yet listen, for my bosom holds thy face! It would be holy for such love as thine, And deathless are the hues its walls display. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...JUNIUS BRUTUS BOOTH by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SONNETS FOR PICTURES: A VENETIAN PASTORAL (BY GIOGIONE) by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 59. AL-MUBDI by EDWIN ARNOLD FOUR SONNETS: 4 by FRANK DAVIS ASHBURN THE SHEPHERD'S PIPE: FIRST ECLOGUE by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) CORA LINN, OR THE FALLS OF CLYDE by THOMAS CAMPBELL A MARRIED WOMAN by THOMAS CAREW TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 3. TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE by EDWARD CARPENTER |