Certain it is that of those qualities
We are enamoured which we most do lack.
So he, fantastic out of human guise,
Bent, broken, bowed, small, apish, humped of back,
Marred in the mint, perfection's contrary,
To sweet perfection found his marred life thrall,
And—the great artist without jealousy—
Knew beauty more than all.
Much he loved flowers and their frail loveliness,
But if they pined thro' blight or thirsty want,