 | Poems |  |
THE PORTRAIT.
Yes, there it blooms for ever,
That girlish face, so fair
Upon the breathing canvas,
And yet not only there;
For, like as is its sweetness,
Far fairer is it wrought,
In all its gentle beauty,
Upon the painter's thought.
That girlish face, so fair
Upon the breathing canvas,
And yet not only there;
For, like as is its sweetness,
Far fairer is it wrought,
In all its gentle beauty,
Upon the painter's thought.
Lo, while his pencil drew her,
Within the stately room,
Love took his stand beside him,
Amid its gorgeous gloom;
And as upon the canvas
Each feature stole to sight,
Love stamped it in the painter's thought
In colours yet more bright.
Within the stately room,
Love took his stand beside him,
Amid its gorgeous gloom;
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Each feature stole to sight,
Love stamped it in the painter's thought
In colours yet more bright.
Nor fleeting were the touches
Of that immortal art,
They bloom in hues unfading,
Though youth and years depart;
The painter's head is hoary,
Her fair face wrinkles fill,
Yet bright as when Love drew it,
His thoughts retain it still.
Of that immortal art,
They bloom in hues unfading,
Though youth and years depart;
The painter's head is hoary,
Her fair face wrinkles fill,
Yet bright as when Love drew it,
His thoughts retain it still.
| Poems | |