Richard

I can tell All as we walk. A poor woodcarver’s son, Prenticed to cut his father’s rude designs (We have it from himself), maker of shrines, In his mean workshop in Siena dreamed; And saw as gods the artists of the earth, And long’d to stand on their immortal shore, And be as they, who in his vision gleam’d, Dowering the world with grace for evermore. So, taxing rest and leisure to one aim, The boy of single will and inbred skill Rose step by step to academic fame.