THE ART OF ALMA-TADEMA

There is no song his colours cannot sing,

For all his art breathes melody, and tunes

The fine, keen beauty that his brushes bring

To murmuring marbles and to golden Junes.

The music of those marbles you can hear

In every crevice, where the deep green stains

Have sunken when the grey days of the year

Spilled leisurely their warm, incessant rains

That, lingering, forget to leave the ledge,

But drenched into the seams, amid the hush

Of ages, leaving but the silent pledge

To waken to the wonder of his brush.

And at the Master's touch the marbles leap

To life, the creamy onyx and the skins

Of copper-coloured leopards, and the deep,

Cool basins where the whispering water wins

Reflections from the gold and glowing sun,

And tints from warm, sweet human flesh, for fair

And subtly lithe and beautiful, leans one —

A goddess with a wealth of tawny hair.