Classic Poem

It befell, a poor, pale artist wandered out, in summer weather,
From the hot haunts of the city to the breezes of the hills;
And they met, one pleasant afternoon, conversed and walked together,
Till the sunset, with soft crimson, flooded all the vales and rills.

She was fain, at first, to shun him. He craved pardon—“I am seeking,”
He said courteously, “a charming view to copy in my book,
There was such mute, earnest pleading, such low music in his speaking,
Such deferential meaning in his manner and his look.

That she could not choose but guide him to the moss-seat by the fountains,
Where the south winds, through the osiers, kissed the lily's odorous bloom,
In a little, quiet valley, all asleep betwixt two mountains,
Where pale sunshine fleckt the waters, and abeles dropt purple gloom.

So they wandered on together, listening to the wild bird's singing;
Plucking, now and then, a violet, that nestled at their feet;
While the young oak leaves above made them a murmur of low ringing,
And their words became unconsciously as musical and sweet.

He discoursed of all things beautiful—things seen by poets only—
For the poet and the painter are akin in mind and heart;
And he told her he was homeless, that his life was very lonely—
Unbeloved and nothing loving, save his glorious mistress, Art.

Thus he talked; and she did listen, as if some strange spell had bound her,
With her eyes bent down so consciously you could not see their light,
Till the sweet winds with soft kisses wooed the flowers to sleep around her,
And the summer stars looked tenderly upon the summer night.

When, with pleasant words, they parted, there was such a tender sorrow,
Soft beseeching, in the melancholy midnight of his eyes,
That she promised—promised timidly—to guide him, on the morrow,
To another scene of beauty his artistic taste would prize.

Long that night she sat, sat thinking, where the silver moonlight falling
Through the crimson window curtains, tinged her pearly cheek with red;
Thinking of the dark-eyed stranger—ever and again recalling
His voice so softly cadenced in the eloquent words he said:

So they met again at evening, 'midst the osiers and the rushes—
Flow and sparkle of glad waters, flight and flutter of bright wings;
And the artist's earnest speaking, and the lady's conscious blushes,
Gave sure token that an angel's hand had touched love's secret springs.

Thenceforward they met often, and he talked with varied learning
Of the orators, philosophers, and bards of long ago;
Ever painting glowing pictures with impassioned words and burning,
While the lady's heart kept beating to the measure of their flow.

And he talked of Art's old masters, of their wonderful creations;
Of the glorious immortality for which they lived and strove;
Of the customs—he had traveled—and the characters of nations;
Of all feelings, all emotions, passions, sentiments, but love.

And the lady sat beside him in her beauty, rarely speaking;
But she listened with a touching, aye, a most bewitching grace;
And he found in her sweet silence the approval he was seeking—
For he read her heart's responses in the changes of her face.