A DISCOURAGING MODEL

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

Of 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!

And that lace at her throat — and the fluttering hands

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?