TO RAPHAEL
Master of adored Madonnas,
What is this men say of thee?
Thou wert something less than honor’s
Most exact epitome?
Yes, they say you loved too many,
Loved too often, loved too well.
Just as if there could be any
Over-loving, Raphael!
Was it, “Sir, and how came this tress,
Long and raven? Mine are gold!”
You should have made Art your mistress,
Lived an anchorite and old!
Ah, no doubt these dear good people
On familiar terms with God,
Could devise a parish steeple
Built to heaven without a hod.
You and Solomon and Cæsar
Were three fellows of a kind;
Not a woman but to please her
You would leave your soul behind.
Those dead women with their beauty,
How they must have loved you well,—
Dared to make desire a duty,
With the heretics in hell!
And your brother, that Catullus,
What a plight he must be in,
If those silver songs that lull us
Were result of mortal sin!
If the artist were ungodly,
Prurient of mind and heart,
I must think they argue oddly
Who make shrines before his art.