You mean, my friend, you do not greatly care For these harsh portraits I have lately done? You like my old style better, — like the rare Enamelled softness of that princess-one? True, this old woman, with the sunken throat Painted like cordage, is not sweet to view. Perhaps the blear whites of her eyes connote No element of loveliness to you. Ah yes, we all must love the sapphire lake, The rainbow, and the rose, — but these alone? Or is there some slight wonder where pines shake On bare-ribbed mountain-peaks of shattered stone? So these disturb? I fear this is the end Of days when I shall please your taste, my friend. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IN WALKED BUD WITH A PALETTE by CLARENCE MAJOR APPELLATE JURISDICTION by MARIANNE MOORE TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY [IN HER MOTHER'S ARMS] by AMBROSE PHILIPS BY WAY OF THE STARS by LEVI BISHOP THE SOUTH-WEST WIND by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 34 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH |