THE PORTRAIT OF THE PRINCESS
Tiny, stately maid of Spain,
With your formal fan and train!
Strange the spell the painter cast,
Strong to make you live and last!
Some one, Sweet, who bore your name,
Changed and grew, as people do;
Had adventures gay or tragic;
Died, one day—yet here are you,
By the wand-like brush’s magic
Held among us, just the same!
On your brow the same soft curls,
On your wrist the changeless pearls,
In the gems the moveless gleams,
In your eyes the selfsame dreams;
What a fairy-tale it seems!
Oh, that he who saw you thus,—
Seized and sent you down to us,
On his canvas limned with skill
Tender curves of throat and cheek,—
Might have added one thing still,
Made the grave lips ope and speak!
For I fain had heard it told
What the world was like around you,
That old world of cloth-of-gold
Where the cunning painter found you.
Tell me how your time was spent:
Had you any playmates then,
Or were all who came and went
Ceremonious dames and men?
Had you some tall hound to pet—
Some caged bird, with eyes of jet?
As you moved, a soul apart,
Through that world of plume and glove,
Could your precious little heart
Fix on anything to love?
—Sober, silent you remain,
Tiny, stately maid of Spain!