Beneath A Photoraph

Phoebus, who taught me art divine,

Here tried his hand where I did mine;

And his white fingers in this

Set my Fair's sigh-suggesting grace.

O sweetness past profaning guess,

Grievous with its own exquisiteness!

Vesper-like face, its shadows

With meanings of sequestered light;

Drooped with shamefast

She purely fears eyes cannot miss,

Yet would blush to know she IS.

Ah, who can view with passionless

This tear-compelling countenance!

He has cozened it to

Almost its own miracle.

Yet I, all-viewing though he be,

Methinks saw further here than he;

And,

Master gay!  I swear I

Something the better of the two!