Poems By Mary Elizabeth Coleridge |
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 | Poems |  |
12
XIII
IN THE BRERA
Full many a painter in the early days
Dreamt that he saw the Lord, and dreaming, smiled.
Yet saw he nothing save a little child,
The baby angels round him singing praise;
Nothing he saw except the heavenward gaze,
The pure compassion of the undefiled:
Or else a man of sorrows, patient, mild,
His thoughts our thoughts, his ways our human ways.
Dreamt that he saw the Lord, and dreaming, smiled.
Yet saw he nothing save a little child,
The baby angels round him singing praise;
Nothing he saw except the heavenward gaze,
The pure compassion of the undefiled:
Or else a man of sorrows, patient, mild,
His thoughts our thoughts, his ways our human ways.
Thou only, Leonardo, didst behold
That which their eyes, desiring, sought in vain;
And if—since thou wert cast in mortal mould—
Not all thy hand might do was free from stain,
All that was not immortal, making old,
Time painted out, and left the vision plain.
That which their eyes, desiring, sought in vain;
And if—since thou wert cast in mortal mould—
Not all thy hand might do was free from stain,
All that was not immortal, making old,
Time painted out, and left the vision plain.
| Poems | |