Artist! lay the brush aside;
Twilight gathers chill and gray;
Turn the picture to the wall,--
Thou hast wrought in vain to-day.
Thrice twelve months have hastened by
Since thy canvas first grew bright
With that brow's bewitching beauty,
And that dark eye's melting light.
But the early morning shineth
On thy tireless labors yet,
And the portrait stands before thee
Till the evening sun has set.
Faultless is the robe that falleth
Round that form of matchless grace;
Faultless is the softened outline
Of the fair and oval face.
Thou hast caught the wondrous beauty
Of the round cheek's roseate hue,
And the full, red lips are smiling
As this morn they smiled on you.
Comments