Classic Poem

I think — while softer fancies sleep —
Of those old altar-pictures quaint,
Which pure-souled Memm'ling loved to paint;
Or, those that in fair Florence keep
His fame, as limner and as saint,
Who, kneeling, painted heaven — and so,
Was named of men " Angelico."
All shut, such reliquaries stand,
Rich paintings on each folded lid
That keeps the inner beauty hid,
And almost one is stopped to gaze,
And half — before the doors expand —
Would lift the censer of his praise.
But, open; and there straightway beam
Such glories of the fairer dream,
All other light is quenched than its.
Unclouded glows the golden air,
And ringed with heaven's own aureole,
The very deep of beauty's soul
Throbs visible, where the Virgin sits.