Classic Poem

Art is true art when art to God is true,
And only then: to copy Nature's work
Without the chains that run the whole world through
Gives us the eye without the lights that lurk
In its clear depths: no soul, no truth is there.
Oh, praise your Rubens and his fleshly brush!
Oh, love your Titian and his carnal air!
Give me the trilling of a pure-toned thrush,
And take your crimson parrots. Artist — saint!
O Fra Angelico, your brush was dyed
In hues of opal, not in vulgar paint;
You showed to us pure joys for which you sighed.
Your heart was in your work, you never feigned:
You left us here the Paradise you gained!