Written Before Andrea Del Sarto’S Portrait Of Himself

The master hand lifted the brush, and lo, Colour and light took form at his command, When Death struck down with an immortal blow The master hand.

A heap of clay becomes a heap of sand, The mad, tumultuous centuries bestow Laurel and dust to sweeten Death’s demand.

Dust chills desire, and laurel lieth low, But art’s eternal hills triumphant stand-- Whose summits feel in one long afterglow The master hand.