In poring o'er her face, which is not fair
To casual eyes as it is fair in mine,
I ponder oft what painter-hand divine
Had surest caught the soul of beauty there;
And for the task, in wayward fancy, dare
Evoke some sturdy truth-teller — Holbein
Or Dürer — or anon some Florentine,
Of grace more delicate and dainty-rare.
But most to thee, great master, most to thee,
O Leonardo, do I turn, whose gaze
Through swirl of change and time's slow-gathering haze
Pierced radiant, and who thus did'st strangely see
The high-soul'd cultured lady of our days.
Master, the face I love, draw it for me!