“Messieurs, le Dieu des peintres”: We felt odd: <br />'Twas Rubens, sculptured. A mean florid church <br />Was the next thing we saw,—from vane to porch <br />His drivel. The museum: as we trod <br />Its steps, his bust held us at bay. The clod <br />Has slosh by miles along the wall within. <br />(“I say, I somehow feel my gorge begin <br />To rise.”)—His chair in a glass case, by God! <br />. . . To the Cathedral. Here too the vile snob <br />Has fouled in every corner. (“Wherefore brave <br />Our fate? Let's go.”) There is a monument <br />We pass. “Messieurs, you tread upon the grave <br />Of the great Rubens.” “Well, that's one good job! <br />What time this evening is the train for Ghent?”<br /><br />Dante Gabriel Rossetti<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sir-peter-paul-rubens-antwerp/
