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For though a little thing, yet were it sweet
To testify that thou whose sovran sight
Should sum all human-kind kissing thy feet,
In me at least didst realise thy right.
But what I crave,—what day and night my heart
Cries for, with yearning not to be represt,
Is that all time should see, glassed in my art,
Thy image, as I bear it in my breast.
Beauty is common, and the triumph poor
That treads upon the sense, not on the will;
At best its empire partial and unsure,
For some men are born blind, and some see ill.
But to be peerless through a peerless soul,
Sending through flesh its pure transpicuous ray;
To wear, in mere completion of the whole,
The fairest form that ever bloomed in clay.
As this is truly greatness, so to live
Thus beyond death is glory truly read;
Mere admiration is but fugitive,
But Love is faithful, even to the dead.
