Classic Poem

The curves of beauty are not softly wrought;
These quivering limbs by strong muscles held
In attitudes of wonder, and compelled
Through shapes more sinuous than a sculptor's thought,
Tell of dull matter splendidly distraught,
Whisper of mutinies divinely quelled —
Weak indolence of flesh, that long rebelled,
The spirit's domination bravely taught.
And all man's loveliest works are cut with pain.
Beneath the perfect art we know the strain,
Intense, defined, how deep so'er it lies.
From each high master-piece our souls refrain,
Nor tired of gazing, but with stretched eyes
Made hot by radiant flames of sacrifice.