I think — while softer fancies sleep — Of those old altar-pictures quaint, Which pure-souled Mem'ling loved to paint; Or, those that in fair Florence keep His fame, as limner and as saint, Who, kneeling, painted heaven — and so, Was named of men " Angelico." All shut, such reliquaries stand, Rich paintings on each folded lid That keeps the inner beauty hid, And almost one is stopped to gaze, And half — before the doors expand — Would lift the censer of his praise. But, open; and there straightway beam Such glories of the fairer dream, All other light is quenched than its. Unclouded glows the golden air, And ringed with heaven's own aureole, The very deep of beauty's soul Throbs visible, where the Virgin sits. *** Painting by Hans Memling, early 1480s, "Virgin and Child with Saints Catherine of Alexandria and Barbara"
