Into the Louvre I did set foot on such an early morn
as seems to be the typical for France in days of spring.
There Mother Mary carved in stone sat with our savior born,
and not far off stood evident that victory with wings.

I thought the woodwork from Makira seemed a bit impure—
that is, the subjects of the piece were very face-to-face—
while sculptures of Osiris sat behind their glass secure,
not hinting at fertility, and, rather, seemed quite chaste.

Not even Aphrodite's bust could hope to find compare,
not with Benoist's "un femme noire" there hanging on the wall.
O, Bartolini's sweet "Dircé" had prettiness to spare,
though many thought da Vinci's girl the cutest of them all.

But of the many beauties I with selfish eyes did see,
the prettiest I saw were those who walked and talked and breathed.