Ah, yes: the food again of course is fabulous
too much for lunch, just like the chandeliers;
the marble fireplace’ smooth and gleaming tabula
a marvel—I can feel the ancients near.
And yet, beyond the walls in the salon,
a darkened cloister honours those pastels;
and down the hall, Degas and then Van Gogh
and wealths of giant minds that spoke in oil.
So now I fear to leave this room and browse:
I cannot bring to them what they to me;
what if my brain so fails the very laws
to see what they have given the world to see.
Let’s say it just seems absolutely odd
so easily to touch the face of God.
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