 | Fra Cipolla, and other poems |  |
119
ON THE PAINTING OF THE FATES, BY MICHAEL ANGELO.
In the dark pile that Luca Pitti built,
And now his foe's descendant o'er the plain
Of Arno looks from out, and sees sun-gilt
The city Time beleaguers but in vain;
Abide the Fates: call up thy soul and see
With Buonarotti's eyes those sisters three.
And now his foe's descendant o'er the plain
Of Arno looks from out, and sees sun-gilt
The city Time beleaguers but in vain;
Abide the Fates: call up thy soul and see
With Buonarotti's eyes those sisters three.
He saw them thus; within his secret heart
Hath many a man a vision of his own,
Shapeless and dread, that with a sudden start
He flies, a shadow 'twixt him and the moon,
The pale light of his wandering phantasy;
But these are heirs of Grecian memory.
Hath many a man a vision of his own,
Shapeless and dread, that with a sudden start
He flies, a shadow 'twixt him and the moon,
The pale light of his wandering phantasy;
But these are heirs of Grecian memory.
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