Emily Pauline Johnson

The Art of Alma-Tadema

    There is no song his colours cannot sing,
        For all his art breathes melody, and tunes
    The fine, keen beauty that his brushes bring
        To murmuring marbles and to golden Junes.

    The music of those marbles you can hear
        In every crevice, where the deep green stains
    Have sunken when the grey days of the year
        Spilled leisurely their warm, incessant rains

    That, lingering, forget to leave the ledge,
        But drenched into the seams, amid the hush
    Of ages, leaving but the silent pledge
        To waken to the wonder of his brush.

    And at the Master's touch the marbles leap
        To life, the creamy onyx and the skins
    Of copper-coloured leopards, and the deep,
        Cool basins where the whispering water wins

    Reflections from the gold and glowing sun,
        And tints from warm, sweet human flesh, for fair
    And subtly lithe and beautiful, leans one -
        A goddess with a wealth of tawny hair.