Michelangelo

Haunted he was by torments tragical,
When in the Sistine where no fete he knew,
Lonely, his Sibyls and his Prophets grew,
And his Last Judgment on the sombrous wall.

He heard the tear-drops unremitting fall,—
Titan whose wish to highest summits flew,—
Where Country, Glory, Love, their failures rue;
And deemed that dreams are false, that death wins all.

And so, these Giants, bloodless, weary grown,
These Slaves bound ever to the unyielding stone,
How strangely twisted at his sovran will;

While in the icy-hearted marbles where
His great soul seethes, how runs with vibrant thrill
The passion of a God imprisoned there.