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 master of old used to paint Round the lips of their favorite saint! And that lace at her throat— and 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. Ah, 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 half so fair?