Michelangelo poured all his heart into these last sonnets. We see his
solitary and heroic age overshadowed by the thought of death. His whole
soul is wrapped in gloom; art is vanity, love is sorrow, the thought of
the futility of all things frames the portrait of his love with a wreath
of black laurel. He ponders on his life, and comes to the conclusion
that
Among the many years not one was his.
This man, the supremest creative genius the world has known, accused
himself of having wasted his life.
No song of praise ever rose to the Deity from Michelangelo's heart, as
it did at least once or twice during his lifetime from the heart of
Beethoven. He never had one hour of true inward peace. He represents the
metaphysical world-feeling which (in addition to love) is the foundation
of the deification of woman, but it has grown into immensity, and has
been lifted to a higher plane; not only love, but all life is felt as
fragmentary and pointing to a world beyond.
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