In the Brera

Full many a painter in the early days
Dreamt that he saw the Lord, and dreaming, smiled.
Yet saw he nothing save a little child,
The baby angels round him singing praise;
Nothing he saw except the heavenward gaze,
The pure compassion of the undefiled:
Or else a man of sorrows, patient, mild,
His thoughts our thoughts, his ways our human ways.

Thou only, Leonardo, didst behold
That which their eyes, desiring, sought in vain;
And if— since thou wert cast in mortal mould —
Not all thy hand might do was free from stain.
All that was not immortal, making old.
Time painted out, and left the vision plain.