Her Portrait

Master of all the craftsmen,
Prince of the Rhodian art,
Interpret, master craftsman,
Each detail I impart,
And draw as were she present
The mistress of my heart.

First you must match those masses
Of darkly clustered hair,
And if such skill be in your wax
The scent that harbours there;
And where the flowing tresses cast
A warm-toned shadow, trace
A forehead white as ivory,
The oval of her face.
Her brows you must not quite divide
Nor wholly join, there lies
A subtle link between them
Above the dark-lashed eyes.
And you must borrow flame of fire
To give her glance its due,
As tender as Cithera's
And as Athena's blue.
For cheek and nostril rose-leaves
And milk you shall enlist,
And shape her lips like Peitho's
Inviting to be kissed.
Let all the Graces stay their flight
And gather round to deck
The outline of her tender chin,
The marble of her neck.
And for the rest--bedrape her
In robe of purple hue,
With here and there to give it life
The flesh tint peeping through.
Now hold thy hand,--for I can see
The face and form I seek,
And surely in a moment's space
I think your wax will speak.