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.