Classic and Contemporary Poetry
HER PICTURE, by HERBERT KAUFMAN Poet's Biography First Line: Paint me her picture, master, thou who / know'st Last Line: The picture, master, never may be done. Subject(s): Paintings & Painters; Pictures | ||||||||
PAINT me her picture, Master, thou who know'st, Limn as I bid thee, and make good thy boast. Scatter yon pigments to the grimy floor, For thou hast need of colorings as ne'er before Have clung to brush or spread the canvas' face. Call to thy mind the witching, winsome grace Of new-born roses, creamy white, with touch Of passioned crimson tinged, but not o'er much. That, for her lucent skin, nor have the texture base, But soft as mists that o'er the Moon Queen trace. This is her face: more fair than that of her Whose beauty moved great Homer's art to stir. Less fair was Daphne whom a god pursued. And yet betimes her glance betrays a mood That lures men's souls as Egypt's wanton's own. Again, like unto Mary's when first on Christ it shone. There, I've told thee wellbut further hark. Her eyes! Blue as the heaven's blue, dark as the dark, Flashing and dancing and soft and dreamywise, Lit with the fire that was in Circe's eyes, Breathing the spirit of some Madonna old. Make them as Dido's, yearning, pleading, bold! Arch thin the brow, a curve as Heaven's own, Beneath the lashes, breathe the breath of gloam. The nose: not long nor short nor thin nor thick Who chiseled Milo's marbles knew the trick But tilt it just a bit and round the tip. Join with thy deftest stroke, the pouting lip, Full as a crooning babe child's, as it rests Smiling and cuddling to its mother's breasts. A mouth that parts one whit, to flash the pearls That eager wait to peep between its curls. Like Cupid's bow the upper line then bend. Set dimples, just a hint, at either end. Her tresses! Tyro, dost thou really hope By oil and brush with such a task to cope? Find thee a loom, and hang thy distaff thick With strands of gold, spun by the spider's trick Mellow, a'sheen, brown, yellow, ruddy-red, Shot here and there with many a tawny thread. At such emprise, did Titian strive him well; Though ages praise, I tell thee, Titian fell. Do all I bidthy task is but begun; The picture, Master, never may be done. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER by HETTIE JONES PHOTOGRAPH OF A GATHERING OF PEOPLE WAVING by CLARENCE MAJOR FEMALE PORTRAIT, 19TH CENTURY by TOMAS TRANSTROMER THREE POEMS ON DEMAND: PICTURES OF BUGS BUNNY DRESSED LIKE A THUG by JORDAN DAVIS PICTURES OF MOTHER by STELLA PFEIFFER BAISCH |
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