Turner , Turner burning bright In the long galleries of night What immortal hand or eye An impressionism of solid delight. Pompous full of divine right Embodying huge egos by sight Catching the history with its rugged throat And empowering nations with easy sloth. What glorification of ordinariness Yards and yards of divine nothingness What colours ! What strokes ! What numbness of mind what gentle hoax. Rightly enlarging the hold of history Which excels in excellence of mediocrity Even the gaudy showers of some cosmic lottery Could not obscure thy fearful symmetry.