A poem by Thomas Thornburg from Ancient Letters

His is a pose one seldom sees these days,
Right shoulder forward in a togaed pose,
The left hand togaed there, welding the lace
Like an inverted goblet lightly chased
(Above the wine-dark robe run from its rim)
To the translucence of the swan-like stem
Sweeps neck to crown of that crushed velvet brim,
Forehead to cheek and thence to lace again.
Raphael’s vintage vision: it is plain
The painful patient art that captured him
Wrested another wealth from all his gain,
See there: no carelessness nor lock of whim
Is but cared for in the careful line.
Symbolumed finger there and lictored lip
Bespeak a stranger to the wheel, the whip;
All, all secured there like a quiet wine:
A rare fair Roman, his hair like autumn honey
And eyes the color of cash money.
Symbolic remnant of a ruptured whole
Whose vandals have broke in and drunk it up,
Didst pizzerias fund wherefrom we dole
This world its drink in plastic Dixie cups?
One will not often now remark your pose,
The Tuscan flare of your falernian nose.
Spartacus would have koshed you, I suppose.