There is no song his colours cannot sing, <br /> For all his art breathes melody, and tunes <br />The fine, keen beauty that his brushes bring <br /> To murmuring marbles and to golden Junes. <br /> <br />The music of those marbles you can hear <br /> In every crevice, where the deep green stains <br />Have sunken when the grey days of the year <br /> Spilled leisurely their warm, incessant rains <br /> <br />That, lingering, forget to leave the ledge, <br /> But drenched into the seams, amid the hush <br />Of ages, leaving but the silent pledge <br /> To waken to the wonder of his brush. <br /> <br />And at the Master's touch the marbles leap <br /> To life, the creamy onyx and the skins <br />Of copper-coloured leopards, and the deep, <br /> Cool basins where the whispering water wins <br /> <br />Reflections from the gold and glowing sun, <br /> And tints from warm, sweet human flesh, for fair <br />And subtly lithe and beautiful, leans one-- <br /> A goddess with a wealth of tawny hair.<br /><br />Emily Pauline Johnson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-art-of-alma-tadema/
