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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!