Classic Poem

" Edith is fair," the painter said,
" Her cheek so richly glows,
My palette ne'er could match the red
Of that pure damask rose.

" Perchance, the evening rain-drops light,
Soft sprinkling from above,
Have caught the sunset's colour bright,
And borne it to my love.

" In distant regions I must seek
For tints before unknown,
Ere I can paint the brilliant cheek
That blooms for me alone."

All this his little sister heard,
Who frolicked by his side;
To check such theories absurd,
That gay young sprite replied:

" Oh, I can tell you where to get
That pretty crimson bloom,
For in a bottle it is set
In Cousin Edith's room.

" I'm sure that I could find the place,
If you want some to keep;
I watched her put it on her face —
She didn't see me peep!

" So nicely she laid on the pink,
As well as you could do,
And really, I almost think
She is an artist, too."

The maddened painter tore his hair,
And vowed he ne'er would wed,
And never since, to maiden fair,
A tender word has said.
Bright ruby cheeks, and skin of pearl,
He knows a shower may spoil,
And when he wants a blooming girl
Paints one himself in oil.