I have a fancy
That my eyes,
And the eyes of a million lovers like me,
Have given to this portrait,
Painted so long ago,
Something of the flame and renewed passion
That burn upon it.
How else should it live so brightly,
How should it hold fresh colors,
Motion, transient mood and shadow,
If our eyes,
Uniting with its beauty,
Did not create
The mystic warmth and life,
Which are its immortality?