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• Great Michael Angelo, with age grown bleak
• And uttermost labours, having once o'ersaid
• All grievous memories on his long life shed,
• This worst regret to one true heart could speak:—
• That when, with sorrowing love and reverence meek,
• He stooped o'er sweet Colonna's dying bed,
• His Muse and dominant Lady, spirit-wed,—
• Her hand he kissed, but not her brow or cheek.

• O Buonarruoti,—good at Art's fire-wheels
• 10 To urge her chariot!—even thus the Soul,
• Touching at length some sorely-chastened goal,
• Earns oftenest but a little: her appeals
• Were deep and mute,—lowly her claim. Let be:
• What holds for her Death's garner? And for thee?

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