In Florence, sacred to a great man's fame
Remains the room of Michael Angelo,
Wherein we softly breathe, with motion slow,
As if a spirit might intrusion blame.
Could it be yesterday he sketched the same
Sad Dies Iræ[1] all the world doth know,
Each touch itself a monument of woe;
Or are we captive to an ancient name?
Time's periods move with still increasing might
Of reverence, for the man whose cunning hand,
Direct from his soul's impulse, opened sight
To blind imaginations, whose command
Removed the hanging veil of Day and Night,
Where Death and Time are vanquished from the land.
