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!