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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=115090" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sonnet XII</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=115090" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Well has thy classick chisel, Banks, express'd<br>The graceful lineaments of that fine form,<br>Which late with conscious, living beauty warm,<br>Now here beneath does in dread silence rest.<br>And, oh, while life shall agitate my breast,<br>Recorded there exists her every charm,<br>In vivid colours, safe from change or harm,<br>Till my last sigh unalter'd love attest.<br>That form, as fair as ever fancy drew,<br>The marble cold, inanimate, retains;<br>But of the radiant smile that round her threw<br>Joys, that beguiled my soul of mortal pains,<br>And each divine expression's varying hue,<br>A little senseless dust alone remains.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Brooke+Boothby">Brooke Boothby</a></strong></div>

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