Classic Poem

II

She is madonna in an art
As wild and young as her sweet eyes:
A frail dew flower from this hot lamp
That is today's divine surprise.

Despite raw lights and gloating mobs
She is not seared: a picture still:
Rare silk the fine director's hand
May weave for magic if he will.

When ancient films have crumbled like
Papyrus rolls of Egypt's day,
Let the dust speak: " Her pride was high,
All but the artist hid away:

" Kin to the myriad artist clan
Since time began, whose work is dear. "
The deep new ages come with her,
Tomorrow's years of yesteryear.