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Yet still he painted on, until his heart Grew to the picture,—it became his world,— He lived but in its beauty, made his art Sacred to it alone. No more he gave To the glad canvass green and summer dreams Of the Italian valleys; traced no more The dark eyes of its lovely daughters, looked And caught the spirit of fine poetry From glorious statues: these were pass'd away. Shade after shade, line after line, each day Gave life to the sweet likeness. Guido dwelt In intense worship on his own creation, Till his cheek caught the hectic tinge he drew, And his thin hand grew tremulous. One night— The portrait was just finished, save a touch, A touch to give the dark light of the eyes—