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.