| I PRAY you, do not turn your head; | |
| And let your hands lie folded, so. | |
| It was a dress like this, wine-red, | |
| That troubled Dante, long ago. | |
| You don't know Dante? Never mind. | 5 |
| He loved a lady wondrous fair— | |
| His model? Something of the kind. | |
| I wonder if she had your hair! | |
| |
| I wonder if she looked so meek, | |
| And was not meek at all (my dear, | 10 |
| I want that side light on your cheek). | |
| He loved her, it is very clear, | |
| And painted her, as I paint you, | |
| But rather better, on the whole | |
| (Depress your chin; yes, that will do): | 15 |
| He was a painter of the soul! | |
| |
| (And painted portraits, too, I think, | |
| In the Inferno—devilish good! | |
| I 'd make some certain critics blink | |
| Had I his method and his mood.) | 20 |
| Her name was (Fanny, let your glance | |
| Rest there, by that majolica tray)— | |
| Was Beatrice; they met by chance— | |
| They met by chance, the usual way. | |
| |
| (As you and I met, months ago, | 25 |
| Do you remember? How your feet | |
| Went crinkle-crinkle on the snow | |
| Along the bleak gas-lighted street! | |
| An instant in the drug-store's glare | |
| You stood as in a golden frame, | 30 |
| And then I swore it, then and there, | |
| To hand your sweetness down to fame.) | |
| |
| They met, and loved, and never wed | |
| (All this was long before our time), | |
| And though they died, they are not dead— | 35 |
| Such endless youth gives mortal rhyme! | |
| Still walks the earth, with haughty mien, | |
| Pale Dante, in his soul's distress; | |
| And still the lovely Florentine | |
| Goes lovely in her wine-red dress. | 40 |
| |
| You do not understand at all? | |
| He was a poet; on his page | |
| He drew her; and, though kingdoms fall, | |
| This lady lives from age to age. | |
| A poet—that means painter too, | 45 |
| For words are colors, rightly laid; | |
| And they outlast our brightest hue, | |
| For varnish cracks and crimsons fade. | |
| |
| The poets—they are lucky ones! | |
| When we are thrust upon the shelves, | 50 |
| Our works turn into skeletons | |
| Almost as quickly as ourselves; | |
| For our poor canvas peels at length, | |
| At length is prized—when all is bare: | |
| "What grace!" the critics cry, "what strength!" | 55 |
| When neither strength nor grace is there. | |
| |
| Ah, Fanny, I am sick at heart, | |
| It is so little one can do; | |
| We talk our jargon—live for Art! | |
| I 'd much prefer to live for you. | 60 |
| How dull and lifeless colors are! | |
| You smile, and all my picture lies: | |
| I wish that I could crush a star | |
| To make a pigment for your eyes. | |
| |
| Yes, child, I know, I am out of tune; | 65 |
| The light is bad; the sky is gray: | |
| I paint no more this afternoon, | |
| So lay your royal gear away. | |
| Besides, you 're moody—chin on hand— | |
| I know not what—not in the vein— | 70 |
| Not like Anne Bullen, sweet and bland: | |
| You sit there smiling in disdain. | |
| |
| Not like the Tudor's radiant Queen, | |
| Unconscious of the coming woe, | |
| But rather as she might have been, | 75 |
| Preparing for the headsman's blow. | |
| So, I have put you in a miff— | |
| Sitting bolt-upright, wrist on wrist. | |
| How should you look? Why, dear, as if— | |
| Somehow—as if you 'd just been kissed! | 80 |
