PHOEBUS, who taught me art divine, Here tried his hand where I did mine; And his white fingers in this face Set my Fair's sigh-suggesting grace. O sweetness past profaning guess, Grievous with its own exquisiteness! Vesper-like face, its shadows bright With meanings of sequestered light; Drooped with shamefast sanctities She purely fears eyes cannot miss, Yet would blush to know she @3is.@1 Ah, who can view with passionless glance This tear-compelling countenance? He has cozened it to tell Almost its own miracle. Yet I, all-viewing though he be, Methinks saw further here than he; And, Master gay, I swear I drew Something the better of the two! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LETHE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE NEW APOCRYPHA: THE FIG TREE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS TANGENTIAL by LOUIS UNTERMEYER THE SICK ROSE, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT by ROBERT BURNS THE SANDS OF DEE by CHARLES KINGSLEY |