A Portrait

Frail, exquisite, indomitable face, Where pain has left its trace ... Where are the words to paint Her curious austere charm ... elusive, pure, As the frost etchings on the window-pane. Ivory, ebony, lace ... Yes I shall choose that clinging gown of black, Severely plain, but with such frills of lace Over the delicate wrists and blue-veined hands That for an instant one feels all restraint Quite useless! Ravishing, ecstatic frills Of lace, or lacy thrills! Choose either phrase! She’s no fanatical saint ... No, after all, No saint at all! Come help me, portrait painters rare and old ... Velasquez, Romney, Reynolds and Van Dyke ... Here’s what you’d like Poured in a modern, twentieth century mould. Ivory, ebony, lace ... Her face Brings suddenly before me grave and clear, Impression of an old-time cavalier, With feminine grace; Brave glancing sword and delicate ripples of lace. For she has conquered dragons of old pain With a deep-shining clarity of thought: Victorious though her frailty shows the strain. I trace With clumsy words the outlines of her face ... Brave, grave, and suddenly flashing, purely gay, Like the lace frills at play! And so you see as I began I end This portrait of my friend ... Ivory, ebony, lace ... Frail, exquisite, indomitable face!