Here you will find the Poem Beneath A Photoraph of poet Francis Thompson
Phoebus, who taught me art divine, Here tried his hand where I did mine; And his white fingers in this face Set my Fair's sigh-suggesting grace. O sweetness past profaning guess, Grievous with its own exquisiteness! Vesper-like face, its shadows bright With meanings of sequestered light; Drooped with shamefast sanctities She purely fears eyes cannot miss, Yet would blush to know she IS. Ah, who can view with passionless glance This tear-compelling countenance! He has cozened it to tell Almost its own miracle. Yet I, all-viewing though he be, Methinks saw further here than he; And, Master gay! I swear I drew Something the better of the two!
