Page:Prometheus Bound, and other poems.djvu/176

170 In Florence, and the world outside his Florence. That's Michel Angelo! his statues wait In the small chapel of the dim St. Lawrence! Day's eyes are breaking bold and passionate Over his shoulder, and will flash abhorrence On darkness, and with level looks meet fate, When once loose from that marble film of theirs: The Night has wild dreams in her sleep; the Dawn Is haggard as the sleepless: Twilight wears A sort of horror: as the veil withdrawn 'Twixt the artist's soul and works had left them heirs Of the deep thoughts which would not quail nor fawn, His angers and contempts, his hope and love; For not without a meaning did he place Princely Urbino on the seat above With everlasting shadow on his face; While the slow dawns and twilights disapprove The ashes of his long-extinguished race, Which never shall clog more the feet of men.

I do believe, divinest Angelo, That winter-hour, in Via Larga, when Thou wert commanded to build up in snow Some marvel of thine art, which straight again Dissolved beneath the sun's Italian glow,