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 And that lace at her throat—and the fluttering handsOf 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! 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. 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 so fair? |
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