Though I am poor, and cannot buy
The rare, time-mellowed things of Art,
God keeps an open gallery
Of glories for the poor in heart,
Whose walls are hung with grander show
Of color than old Titian knew,
With outlines Michael Angelo
Wronged in the best cartoons he drew!
All this is mine to have and hold:
Nor fire may burn, nor years may soil,
With ruthless trace of gathering mould,
These wonders of the Master's toil;
Nor can some restless child of Fate,
Some darkly gifted Corsican,
By red successes decorate
His Louvre from my Vatican!