A Discouraging Model

Just the airiest, fairiest slip of a thing,     With a Gainsborough hat, like a butterfly's wing,     Tilted up at one side with the jauntiest air,     And a knot of red roses sown in under there     Where the shadows are lost in her hair.     Then a cameo face, carven in on a ground     Of that shadowy hair where the roses are wound;     And the gleam of a smile, O as fair and as faint     And as sweet as the master of old used to paint     Round the lips of their favorite saint!     And that lace at her throat - and fluttering hands     Snowing there, with a grace that no art understands,     The flakes of their touches - first fluttering at     The bow - then the roses - the hair and then that     Little tilt of the Gainsborough hat.     Ah, what artist on earth with a model like this,     Holding not on his palette the tint of a kiss,     Nor a pigment to hint of the hue of her hair     Nor the gold of her smile - O what artist could dare     To expect a result half so fair?