Oh! painter, do not tell
Of silvery streams and shaded, flowery dell,
Nor talk of clouds with faces to the sun,
That hang low down where golden rivers run.
But dare to paint with skillful, cunning art
The secret workings of a woman's heart.
Oh, catch the light that lingers in her eyes--
The passing gleam that o'er the shadow flies;
Then paint for me the secrets of her soul,
That I may read as on some written scroll.
If this you cannot do, then talk no more
Of nature's wealth of deep and mystic lore--
Of waving grass and azure skies; a face
Is worth them all.

She stands in sunny grace,
A woman--the fairest picture e'er was wrought;
A poem fresh from God's own living thought.

She turns again, for once more at her feet
A few fair flowers fall--spell-bound she stands,
Then stoops and clasps them all with eager hands;
Blue violets, and roses wild and sweet,
Forget-me-nots and daises, pure and white--
Oh! dear wild flowers, how come you here this night
To welcome her with shy and modest eyes,
And dewy faces where the sunshine lies.
Caressingly she bends and kisses them
With warm, bright lips--the royal diadem