Classic Poem

There have been pictures that were reckoned fair
In ancient times by cunning painters wrought,
And far across the tides of ocean brought
To hang at last like jewels old and rare
In stately halls; but none that would compare
To some one woman, by the Graces taught,
With roses at her bosom, perfume-fraught
And motes of golden sunlight in her hair.

Time picks the crumbling canvas into shreds
Till, dust at length it sinks in the abyss,
And with the winds in errant circle blows;
But ere Fate comes to snip the tightened threads
There is no picture which is like to this—
The one fair woman—at her breast a rose.