Poets are terrible romanticists in the matter of the affections. Too many behave, even on the threshold of the Ideal, in the reprehensible manner of Samuel Pepys when that famous chronicler and incurable old pagan found himself in church one fine day. So the sermon ended. See that they be good, see that they come in season. If all the Fair Women of Picture-World were to be brought together, it would be made quite clear that the one thing that in a thousand instances escapes the painter is expression.
Expression is the morningglory of beauty.
A few men in all ages have understood this, Leonardo and the great Italians pre-eminently. To discern it, to apprehend it, to reveal it to others, that is indeed the quintessential thing in all art. In a word, he must bring the glow of imagination into play, he must let his mental atmosphere be nimble and keenly receptive. He must discern in the canvas a light that is not there. He must see the colour come and go upon the face, must see the eyes darken or gleam, the lips move, the smile just about to come forth, and if possible the inner radiance that in many vivid and fine natures seems to dwell upon the forehead, though too fugitive ever to be caught, save as it were for a moment unawares.