Or the Pantheon façade, or Michel Angelo’s figures,
Or, at a wish, when I please, the Alban hills and the Forum,—
But that face, those eyes,—ah, no, never anything like them;
Only, try as I will, a sort of featureless outline,
And a pale blank orb, which no recollection will add to.
After all, perhaps there was something factitious about it;
I have had pain, it is true: I have wept, and so have the actors.
At the last moment I have your letter, for which I was waiting;
I have taken my place, and see no good in inquiries.