Nothing the greatest artist can conceive That every marble block doth not confine Within itself; and only its design The hand that follows intellect can achieve. The ill I flee, the good that I believe, In thee, fair lady, lofty and divine, Thus hidden lie; and so that death be mine Art, of desired success, doth me bereave. Love is not guilty, then, nor thy fair face, Nor fortune, cruelty, nor great disdain, Of my disgrace, nor chance, nor destiny, If in thy heart both death and love find place At the same time, and if my humble brain, Burning, can nothing draw but death from thee. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FOR OUR BETTER GRACES by JAMES GALVIN WRITTEN IN THE BEGINNING OF MEZERAY'S HISTORY OF FRANCE by MATTHEW PRIOR LINES TO ROBERT ALDERSON UPON HIS DEPARTURE FROM WARRINGTON by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD THE LITTLE OLD WOMEN; TO VICTOR HUGO by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE THE HARES; A FABLE by JAMES BEATTIE EACH FLEETING DAY by CHARLOTTE LOUISE BERTLESEN THE EARTH MOTHER by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON |