Classic Poem

What colour-worker shall inform his strain
Of Shakespeare's melody or Plato's brain,
Or tear the mask from Nature and portray
The secret springs of Life's impassioned play?
The spirit is not always clothed of grace,
The foulest mind may flaunt the fairest face:
And yet what master of melodious prose
Shall paint that face in action or repose,
And realize its beauties to the sight
In terms of truth and pure pictorial light?
By its perfection only shall an art
Real pleasure to the expert mind impart,
And not by casual comments upon life,
With information or with maxims rife,
That yield no pleasure of the gladsome kind
Art lovers love, and sadly seldom find.