Classic Poem

Some things my aging years forget
More things my wiser years regret,
But never Art. How deep the debt
Life always owes it!
'Tis the immortal part in Grief.
Death takes the rose but leaves the leaf,
And though from seed to bud be brief
Art ever sows it.

Who could forget this dainty grace;
These hands that flutter into space
Like little birds; this mobile face
So like to Duse's;
The prancing step; the hair of jet;
The voice that leaves our lashes wet;
The smile about whose cradle met
So many Muses?

Unseizable the secret lies
How with her art's profound disguise
She shows through mind and heart and eyes
A world so human.
Cervantes' daughter! Pride of Spain!
Oh, wave that little hand again
And tell how near to Joy is Pain
And both to Woman.