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There is no song his colours cannot sing, For all his art breathes melody, and tunes The fine, keen beauty that his brushes bring To murmuring marbles and to golden Junes.

The music of those marbles you can hear In every crevice, where the deep green stains Have sunken when the grey days of the year Spilled leisurely their warm, incessant rains

That, lingering, forget to leave the ledge, But drenched into the seams, amid the hush Of ages, leaving but the silent pledge To waken to the wonder of his brush.

And at the Master's touch the marbles leap To life, the creamy onyx and the skins Of copper-coloured leopards, and the deep, Cool basins where the whispering water wins

Reflections from the gold and glowing sun, And tints from warm, sweet human flesh, for fair And subtly lithe and beautiful, leans one— A goddess with a wealth of tawny hair.