Beauty like hers is genius. Not the call 
Of Homer's or of Dante's heart sublime, -- 
Not Michael's hand furrowing the zones of time, -- 
Is more with compassed mysteries musical; 
Nay, not in Spring's Summer's sweet footfall 
More gathered gifts exuberant Life bequeaths 
Than doth this sovereign face, whose love-spell breathes 
Even from its shadowed contour on the wall.

As many men are poets in their youth, 
But for one sweet-strung soul the wires prolong 
Even through all change the indomitable song; 
So in likewise the envenomed years, whose tooth 
Rends shallower grace with ruin void of truth, 
Upon this beauty's power shall wreak no wrong.