Poetry Archives

I knew not who had wrought with skill so fine
  What I beheld; nor by what laws of art
  He had created life and love and heart
On canvas, from mere color, curve and line.
Silent I stood and made no move or sign;
  Not with the crowd, but reverently apart;
  Nor felt the power my rooted limbs to start,
But mutely gazed upon that face divine.

And over me the sense of beauty fell,
  As music over a raptured listener to
    The deep-voiced organ breathing out a hymn;
Or as on one who kneels, his beads to tell,
  There falls the aureate glory filtered through
      The windows in some old cathedral dim.