Raphael's The Nymph Galatea
She plays

It is a murmuring harp of Winds
which fading slightly laid
in the Morning's sun slightly

as the dew, like leaves the after-thoughts,

those swaggering innocents,
the brutal objects of the mockery of Time

rescinds the solitary tears
of much too much early eaves

She plays

Anonymous nods amongst the retiring
stones of the soul

hobbled in the dishevelling
winds the exhumed affront

the warps of Summer
exchanging whistling across words

the increasing warmth doubling
as the crumbling cool, killing
as quickly as funning in the sodden dull

like some clowning poised upon Th'Max
like some expected appointment of man's

Aim poorly soared
Pride fiercely poured

the green carved a great ground
and the grass sweats
th'cool of Evening

She plays

failure as nimble
success' thimble full

a symbol wove above love's
intermingled conflicts: the daredevils

morsels of surmise

The Sun causes the stars to haste off
for their dark distant bowers

at Day searching for some clear echo
of that loveliest Yesteryear

She plays

quilts & dinghies upon the boisterous blue

a cycle of extended days reclining
upon the columns of turbulence

the tempestuous breezy green a soil of sorrows

is some circumstance of Time
the tranquility unstilled

mercy like a mistake
& soul the interval

just room enough like a midnight
the overcoming storm uncontrollable

Bouguereau's Nymph & Satyr
She plays

all th'unfamiliar syllables of The Same

sulking a reverence the fresh waves
breaking upon their desert, reverberating

Morning the milkman

The Must amongst the mansions of moonlight
whispering Woods & almonds the familiar

mourning the unsummoned through the tunnel of Hope

Captive's the golden Heavens' hair
in twisting flowers sleeping & so

silent there fading before the warmth
rising (for Cold keeps Life

and Warmth murders it with such an animate Knife
with its intricate greatness

tapdancing under the beams of th'evermore
ever-after sky colors like colonnades

She plays

fears like so many aphids

the young like the ages' janitors
dazed by The Dark in the tranquility of lacking

listening how they march
closer & closer the regiments of reason
losing to the enduring Unconcern

& passions like the blood of pains
pains like the blood of passions

in th'uncurious cold

She plays

unmistakable her
in th'unnameable main her Song

and Song her song,
although it will never yet again return
Once Sung,

ghost garnished, it would murder
with cruelty,

were it not to burn
Odilon Redon's Beatrice