Just the airiest, fairiest slip of a thing, With a Gainsborough hat, like a butterfly's wing, Tilted up at one side with the jauntiest air, And a knot of red roses sown in under there Where the shadows are lost in her hair.
Then a cameo face, carven in on a ground Of that shadowy hair where the roses are wound; And the gleam of a smile O as fair and as faint And as sweet as the masters of old used to paint Round the lips of their favorite saint!
And that lace at her throat -- and the fluttering hands Snowing there, with a grace that no art understands, The flakes of their touches -- first fluttering at The bow -- then the roses -- the hair -- and then that Little tilt of the Gainsborough hat.
O what artist on earth with a model like this, Holding not on his palette the tint of a kiss, Nor a pigment to hint of the hue of her hair, Nor the gold of her smile -- O what artist could dare To expect a result half so fair?
End of title
Sign in to unlock this title
Sign in to continue reading, it's free! As an unregistered user you can only read a little bit.
