An art grows up from year to year:
The critic weighs the utmost gains,
The last result, the perfect sphere,
Not the steps, but what remains;

Sees the analogue, ebb and flow,—
Beautiful, yes, look at it near,—
The flow, the ebb returning so,—
It is at last art's perfect sphere.

But not the less our Shakespeare knew
Another way; by full discourse
To show his picture as it grew,
Worked out in many-sided force.

Then when the heart can wish no more,
With a strong couplet bars the door.