In The Picture Gallery

 WITH palette laden 
She sat, as I passed her, 
A dainty maiden 
Before an Old Master. 

What mountain-top is 
She bent upon? Ah, 
She neatly copies 
Murillo's Madonna. 

But rapt and brimming 
The eyes' full chalice says 
The heart builds dreaming 
Its fairy-palaces. 

* * * 

The eighteenth year rolled 
By, ere returning, 
I greeted the dear old 
Scenes with yearning. 

With palette laden 
She sat, as I passed her, 
A faded maiden 
Before an Old Master. 

But what is she doing? 
The same thing still--lo, 
Hotly pursuing 
That very Murillo! 

Her wrist never falters; 
It keeps her, that poor wrist, 
With panels for altars 
And daubs for the tourist. 

And so she has painted 
Through years unbrightened, 
Till hopes have fainted 
And hair has whitened. 

But rapt and brimming 
The eyes' full chalice says 
The heart builds dreaming 
Its fairy-palaces.

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