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Three-hundred years the world has looked at it
Unwearied—it, at heaven: and here it hangs
In Dresden, making it a Holy City.
It is an old acquaintance: you have met
Copies by thousands—Morghens here and there—
But all the sunlight withered. Prints, at best,
Are but the master's shadow—as you see.
I call that face the holiest revelation
God ever made to genius. How, or why,
When, or for whom 'twas painted, wherefore ask?
Enough to know 'tis Raphael, and to feel
His Fornarina was not with him, when
Spurning the slow cartoon he flashed that face,
That Virgin-Mother's half-transfigured face,
On canvas. Yes: they say, 'twas meant to head
Some virginal procession: to that banner
Heaven's inmost gates might open, one would think.
But let the picture tell its story. Take
Your stand in this far corner. Falls the light
As you would have it? That, Saint Barbara;
Observe her inclination, and the finger
Of Sixtus: both are pointing—where? Now, look
Below—those grand boy-angels: watch their eyes
Fastened—on whom? What: not yet catch my meaning?
Step closer—half a step—no nearer. Mark
The Babe's fixed glance of calm equality.
Observe that wondering, rapt, dilated gaze,
The Mother's superhuman joy and fear,
That hushed, that startled adoration. Watch
Those circled cherubs swarming into light,
Wreathing their splendid arch, their golden ring,
Around the unveiled vision. Look above
At the drawn curtain. Ah; we do not see
God's self; but they do. They are face to face
With the Eternal Father.
Sir, 'tis strange:
That wondrous Virgin-face, which Raphael plucked
From his vast soul four centuries ago,
Is breathing now—not in his Italy—
But on the shores where then first flashed the sail
Of Genoa's ocean Pilot.
Years ago
We met mid-heaven, like drops of summer rain;
Then, falling, parted.
But observe the picture:
Am I not right? Just, just before them burns,
Viewless to us, the Unveiled Omnipotent.
Yet somehow, critics fail to see, or say this.
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