THE lady I have vowed to paint
Has contour of a rose,
No rigid shadow of a saint
Upon the wall she throws;
Her tints so softly lie
Against the air they almost vie
With the sea's outline smooth against the sky.
To those whom damask hues beguile
Her praise I do not speak,
I find her colour in the smile
Warm on her warm, blond cheek :
Then to the eyes away
It spreads, those eyes of mystic gray
That with mirage of their own vision play.
Her hairr, about her brow, burns bright.
Her tresses are the gold
That in a missal keeps the light
Solemn and pure. Behold
Her lashes' glimmerings
Have the dove's secret springs
Of amber sunshine when she spreads her wings.
