Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, HER PICTURE, by HERBERT KAUFMAN



Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

HER PICTURE, by                     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 well—but 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 bid—thy task is but begun;
The picture, Master, never may be done.





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