THe glorious portraict of that Angels face, <br />Made to amaze weake mens confused skil: <br />and this worlds worthlesse glory to embase, <br />what pen, what pencill can expresse her fill? <br />For though he colours could deuize at will, <br />and eke his learned hand at pleasure guide: <br />least trembling it his wormanship should spill, <br />yet many wondrous things there are beside. <br />The sweet eye-glaunces, that like arrowes glide, <br />the charming smiles, that rob sence from the hart: <br />the louely pleasance and the lofty pride, <br />cannot expressed be by any art. <br />A greater craftesmans hand thereto doth neede, <br />that can expresse the life of things indeed.<br /><br />Edmund Spenser<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xvii-3/
