I knew not who had wrought with skill so fine <br />What I beheld; nor by what laws of art <br />He had created life and love and heart <br />On canvas, from mere color, curve and line. <br />Silent I stood and made no move or sign; <br />Not with the crowd, but reverently apart; <br />Nor felt the power my rooted limbs to start, <br />But mutely gazed upon that face divine. <br /> <br />And over me the sense of beauty fell, <br />As music over a raptured listener to <br />The deep-voiced organ breathing out a hymn; <br />Or as on one who kneels, his beads to tell, <br />There falls the aureate glory filtered through <br />The windows in some old cathedral dim.<br /><br />James Weldon Johnson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/before-a-painting/
