Hast thou the heart to touch, or even look
Upon such art as this and give its due
An thou profess as fanciful, outgrew,
Though for this canvas rapture overtook;
But are such things professed forever true:
That hath these sculpted works thy nature shook;
And shall thy pastrefinement be forsook,
Though long thou from thine innocence withdrew?
Rare, priceless, as may not be seen again,
Wilt claim thou of thy prime: the best doth wane;
And of this art, so fast a friend may come,
Though whether ancient made or new, as fast.
Shalt thou mostproper frame such art at last,
Or once more to thy patronage succumb?
Canst not thou fascination herewith see;
With fascination whereunto I saw;
That once herewith so simple, and with awe,
That actually such as this might be?
Art thou, to look upon, as fine as she?
Canst thou, as fine a work of art–or draw
A thing–as this, unveiled, without flaw?
Doth it pale in comparison to thee?
And art thou one, of which were only two?
Or art thou one, if such were only three?
Hast thou, among so many, seen, as me,
Perfection, took to pen, to sculpt? Or drew,
For, such a thing is finer still; to be
So fine, that redefined a thing, as true.