(@3On seeing one of his statues in a group of Grecian masterpieces@1) Smooth-browed they stand, these marble forms of old, Olympianly serene, without a trace Of all the throes that won their tranquil grace; They view mankind with looks aloof and cold. For though their glorious limbs retain the mould Of mortal beauty, they admit no place To struggling imperfection, -- every face A snow-pure height that cloudless beams enfold. Not so, brave master, was your vision wrought. That glance of blinded ecstasy has known The spasms of despair; that breast, still caught In swathes of rock, still breathes a mighty groan. There throbs the beauty of a poet's thought That strains toward God through clinging veils of stone. |