That face which no man ever saw <br />And from his memory banished quite, <br />With eyes in which are Hamlet's awe <br />And Cardinal Richelieu's subtle light, <br />Looks from this frame. A master's hand <br />Has set the master player here, <br />In the fair temple that he planned <br />Not for himself. To us most dear <br />This image of him! "It was thus <br />He looked; such pallor touched his cheek; <br />With that same grace he greeted us-- <br />Nay, 't is the man, could it but speak!" <br />Sad words that shall be said some day-- <br />Far fall the day! O cruel Time, <br />Whose breath sweeps mortal things away, <br />Spare long this image of his prime, <br />That others standing in the place <br />Where, save as ghosts, we come no more, <br />May know what sweet majestic face <br />The gentle Prince of Players wore!<br /><br />Thomas Bailey Aldrich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sargent-s-portrait-of-edwin-booth/
