from Michael Angelo

from Michael Angelo

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

                                      Michael Angelo  
                             How changed you are
From the Sebastiano I once knew,
When poor, laborious, emulous to excel,
You strove in rivalry with Baldassare
And Raphael Sanzio.

                                        Fra Sebastiano
                               Raphael is dead;
He is but dust and ashes in his grave,
While I am living and enjoying life,
And so am victor.  One live Pope is worth
A dozen dead ones.

                                      Michael Angelo
                                Raphael is not dead;
He doth but sleep; for how can he be dead
Who lives immortal in the hearts of men?
He only drank the precious wine of youth,
The outbreak of the grapes, before the vintage
Was trodden to bitterness by the feet of men.
The gods have given him sleep.  We never were
Nor could be foes, although our followers
Who are distorted shadows of ourselves,
Have striven to make us so; but each one worked
Unconsciously upon the other’s thought,
Both giving and receiving.  He perchance
Caught strength from me, and I some greater sweetness
And tenderness from his more gentle nature.
I have but words of praise and admiration
For his great genius; and the world is fairer
That he lived in it.