A Tomb in Tuscany

In Montepulciano fair,—Long famous for that vintage rare,Prized by the giver of the vineAbove all wine—There dwelt a man whose years had taught himTo seek, beyond what wealth had brought him,Something to give his transient nameA lasting fame.

"For lordly palaces," he said,"Shall crumble; ay, and bastions dread,And temples grave and gardens gayBecome as they;Each vaunted image of my powerShall perish like a wayside flower,And like the hawk my hand hath fedLie waste and dead.

"Wherefore, ere yet my days be spent,I will uprear a monumentThat 'gainst the envious floods of TimeShall stand sublime;My treasures vast shall serve and cherishAn art too heavenly to perish:A beauty, born of passion pure,That shall endure!"

So spoke he; and now lies asleep,While near him forms angelic keepUnwearied watch, and from decayGuard him alway:Rare, sculptured forms that blend his storyWith Donatello's deathless glory,And make mankind his debtors beEternally.

For lordly castles, as he said,Have crumbled; ay, and bastions dread,And temples grave and gardens gayBecome as they.Each vaunted image of his powerHas perished like a wayside flower,But living in the art he fed,He is not dead!