 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
114
RAFFAELLE.
Ho!—thou that hither comest, in gorgeous stoleOf many-colour'd silk,—and round thy head
The rainbow hues of fancy richly shed,—
And eyes that in ecstatic transport roll,—
And looks that speak the triumph of the soul,—
Hail, young creative spirit! from whose mind
Teeming tumultuously with thoughts and things,
(The flitting notion with strong power combined
Of fixing all those grand imaginings,)
An intellectual world of wonder springs:
Raffaelle, thine all too perishable art
Fades from the time-stain'd walls: but not so fade
Our memories of thy skill;—those laurels start
Afresh for ever: walk thou in their shade.
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |