In marble halls, where echoes of the past reside,
The symphonies of yore still softly play,
The whispers of a time when art was pride,
And every note could chase the night away.

Beneath the brush, in hues of ancient lore,
A canvas breathes with stories seldom told,
The Classical Era’s heart forever more,
In strokes of light and shadows dark and bold.

Through columns grand, in temples of the mind,
The wisdom of the ages stands in stone,
Each chisel mark a testament to find,
The beauty in the world we now have known.

So let us wander through these hallowed halls,
And feel the pulse of history’s embrace,
For in each note and brushstroke, time recalls,
The timeless dance of art’s eternal grace.