The Artist

In story books, when I was very young, I knew her first, one of the Fairy Race; And then it was her picture took its place, Framed round with love’s deep gold, and draped and hung High in my heart’s red room: no song was sung, No tale of passion told, I did not grace With her associated form and face, And intimated charm of touch and tongue. As years went on she grew to more and more, Until each thing, symbolic to my heart Of beauty,--such as honor, truth, and fame,-- Within the studio of my soul’s thought wore Her lineaments, whom I, with all my art, Strove to embody and to give a name.