If not the painter's nor the sculptor's skill
Can give thy beauty its entitled place;
Catch the revealings of that subtle grace
Whose charm eludes its imitation still;
How can I hope, who every moment fill
My heart with wonders from thy heavenly face,
Seeing a light no other eyes can trace--
How can I hope to do thee aught but ill?
The wretched mockery of this black and white
Slanders thy favor o'er and o'er again,
And stirs a discord betwixt heart and pen.
In truth I marvel at the things I write;
They seem so far from thy conceded right
Such plain impostures in the sight of men.