Paul, let thy faces from the canvas look Haply less clearly than Pietro's can, Less lively than in tints of Titian, Or him who both the bay-wreath-chaplets took: Yet shalt thou therefore have no harsh rebuke Of me whom, while with eager eye I scan O'er painted pomps of Brera and Vatican, The first delight thou gavest ne'er forsook. For in thy own Verona, long ago, Before one masterpiece of cool arcades, I made a friend; and such a friend was rare. For him, I love thy velvet's glorious show, Thy sheens of silk 'twixt marble balustrades, Thy breathing-space and full translucent air.