To a Religious Lady, On Her Face

With one Million words one can not convey, Ten hundred colors are less. Give him golden-nib pen Peacock’s feathers’ brush, He may later complain. Even any ink of hope, An African poet would write And had won An eminent prize in Art. O.K. provide him that surface Having grassy milieu, Lakes’ view and a rainbows’ hue. Well! free him all his years and ten more, He would wander forests side And seek that required wisdom In summers’ starry nights, winters’ full moon. Go, call from heaven The so-called Raphael or any Pre…, An Egyptian designer or a thinker of Greece, Or an Italian I have heard much about... I know I know and proclaim Alone or in concert—they all shall fail, Portraying thy rich face.