Yet take the colder copy from my hand...

Yet take the colder copy from my hand,

Not for its own but for the Master's sake;

Take it, as thou, returning home, wilt take

From that divinest soft Italian land

Fixed shadows of the beautiful and grand

In sunless pictures that the sun doth make —

Reflections that may pleasant memories wake

Of all that Raffael touched, or Angelo planned:—

As these may keep what memory else might lose,

So may this photograph of verse impart

An image, though without the native hues

Of Calderon's fire, and yet with Calderon's art,

Of what thou lovest through a kindred muse

That sings in heaven, yet nestles in the heart.