In words that his full heart made eloquence.
Silent the father heard; there as he sate
In jewelled silks, and velvets furbelow’d,
With works of mighty masters on the wall,
And all his art’s appliances about him,
A stern smile curled his pale patrician lip,
And cold and slow the cruel sentence came:
‘A painter’s daughter may not wed a smith;
Paint me like this and these, and thou shalt have her.’
Died then his love? Listen! The maiden wept