Poem by Jean Blewett

Her Portrait

When Love, the master-painter, took the brush
And on the wall of mem'ry dull and grey
Traced tender eyes, wide brow, and changing blush,
The gladness and the youth, the bending head
All covered over with its curls of gold,
The dimpled arms, the two hands filled with bread
To feed the little sparrows brown and bold
That flutter to her feet. It hangs there still,
Just as 'twas painted on that far-off day,
Nor faded is the blush upon the cheek,
The sweet lips hold their smiling and can thrill,
And still the eyes—so tender, and so meek—
Light up the walls of mem'ry dull and grey.

1. The Passage
2. Margaret
3. What Time the Morning Stars Arise
4. For He Was Scotch, and So Was She
5. At Quebec

Madison Cawein Her Portrait ("Were I an artist, Lydia, I")

Print

1223 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version