In vain, Bright Girl! you bid us mark
Each charm of portrait round us thrown,
When sight and soul alike are dark
To every face—except your own.
And while yon connoisseurs eschew
All 'Perfect'—save in the 'Ideal;'
To prove them false we turn to you,
And find our 'Perfect'—in the 'Real.'
Tuesday, October 12, 2010