Oh could I sing! But symphony is stilled,
Music is hushed before such poetry of form.
Dear God! It seems the very flesh is warm
With this compassion, pain and love distilled
In paint and plaster. How was that brush so thrilled
With understanding for the strife of man
And this achieved in mortal human span?

Oh could I sing! But yet my heart is chilled:
Read me those liquid mysteries! His wise
Unfathomable Delphic Sibyl's eyes,
Dream they with pity of the struggles past
Knowing that man can reach these heights at last,
Or see they nightmare-man refusing bliss
And dropping bombs that might destroy all this?

JMT 1944