The Artist

In story books, when I was very young,

I knew you first, one of the Fairy Race;

And then it was your picture took its place,

Framed in with love's deep gold, and draped and hung

High in my heart's red room: no song was sung,

No tale of passion told, I did not grace

With your associated form and face,

And intimated charm of touch and tongue.

As years went on you grew to more and more,

Until each thing, symbolic to my heart

Of beauty,— such as honor, truth, and fame,—

Within the studio of my soul's thought wore

Your lineaments, whom I, with all my art,

Strove to embody and to give a name.