There's Raphael with his wide unanxious eyes,     

       He does his work as though it were his play;     

       He never talks of fame, but sings the while     

       He paints the Virgin with Lord Jesus Christ—     

       Goes to the door, throws kisses to a child,     

       Goes to the window, smiles to some slim girl,     

       And so returns and flashes kiss and smile     

       Into the canvas quaking 'neath his brush,     

       Creating thus a masterpiece sublime.     

       And then there's surly Michelangelo     

       Who chisels Davids through the death-long night,     

       And paints Last Judgments through the livelong     

       day,     

       Pantingly running, pace on pace with Fame,     

       Racing dean-limbed toward his goal in life.     

  

       But I, poor changeling, wake, and dream, and     

       wake,     

       And dream again, retarded by desire.     

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