The Graces, on a summer day,

Grew serious for a moment; yea,

They thought in rivalry to trace

The outline of a perfect face.

Each used a rosebud for a brush,

And, while it glowed with sunset's blush,

Each painted on the evening sky,

And each a star used for the eye.

They finished. Each a curtaining cloud

Drew back, and each exclaimed aloud:

"Behold, we three have drawn the same,

From the same model!" Ah, her name?

I know. I saw the pictures grow.

I saw them falter, fade, and go.

I know the model. Oft she lures

My heart. The face, my sweet, was yours.