Sense of my weakness, knowledge of thy might.
And to no stippling from the good antique,
My shame and joy before the joyous Greek.
For I have walked in galleries oftentimes,
And shaded with one hand a longing eye;
And found no touch of love to soften times
As hard as nails, as dead to ecstasy;
And nothing in the gallery was fair,
But the worn face of the commissionaire.
So in despair I wax a trifle coarse,