Sonnet Xviii: Genius In Beauty

Beauty like hers is genius. Not the call Of Homer's or of Dante's heart sublime,— Not Michael's hand furrowing the zones of time,— Is more with compassed mysteries musical; Nay, not in Spring's or Summer's sweet footfall More gathered gifts exuberant Life bequeaths Than doth this sovereign face, whose love-spell breathes Even from its shadowed contour on the wall. As many men are poets in their youth, But for one sweet-strung soul the wires prolong Even through all change the indomitable song; So in like wise the envenomed years, whose tooth Rends shallower grace with ruin void of ruth, Upon this beauty's power shall wreak no wrong.