 | Orchids |  |
45
THE PAINTER
Sweet, couldst thou give thy soul of love to me,
No gift, save what the world of men who live
Could render in return, were mine to give:
No gift save one—art's immortality.
And this were light and vain as love to thee,
Whose soul is sweet and useless as a flower,
Seeing that you deem the moment and the hour
Coequal with the eternal sun and sea.
No gift, save what the world of men who live
Could render in return, were mine to give:
No gift save one—art's immortality.
And this were light and vain as love to thee,
Whose soul is sweet and useless as a flower,
Seeing that you deem the moment and the hour
Coequal with the eternal sun and sea.
Ah love! this is most sad, to dream that you,
(Your small red mouth, your eyes of tender blue,
Your perfect body without spot or blame!)
Must die and be forgotten as you forget
All things that I weep after and regret—
Since losing love I will not give you fame.
(Your small red mouth, your eyes of tender blue,
Your perfect body without spot or blame!)
Must die and be forgotten as you forget
All things that I weep after and regret—
Since losing love I will not give you fame.
| Orchids | |