Yet take the colder copy from my hand...

YET take the colder copy from my hand, Not for its own but for THE MASTER'S sake,— Take it, as thou, returning home, wilt take From that divinest soft Italian land Fixed shadows of the Beautiful and Grand In sunless pictures that the sun doth make— Reflections that may pleasant memories wake Of all that Raffael touched, or Angelo planned:— As these may keep what memory else might lose, So may this photograph of verse impart An image, though without the native hues Of Calderon's fire, and yet with Calderon's art, Of what Thou lovest through a kindred Muse That sings in heaven, yet nestles in the heart.