There in Bologna eighty saints are lodged
On pedestals, in rows up
The vaulted ceiling, till
Heads meet at the top
Of the hall.
Statues can wither like a blighted tree,
The hand holding the pen suffers
Dry rot, and a mantle embroidered
So skillfully
On oak
Disappears. Indeed, it is our loss
Not to have lived five hundred years
Ago, when in their vigor
These figures were all
One color.
A controversy now in black and white,
The restored saints look down: one’s right
Hand is clean new pine,
Another’s torso
Speckled
As a mosaic. Near the end is an old man
Reading a new book; his robe
Flows yet from broad shoulders
Without break
Or stain.
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