A painter's art can conjure life's delight;
His brush can kiss
a woman's lips and seed
A grove of oaks whose tender leaves bedight
The evening sky, and murmur midnight's rede.
The sculptor chisels subtleties from stone
Or weaves the
softest cloths of brazen thread
To clothe immortal gods, or gild the
throne
Of some archaic queen who's long lain dead.
A poet sets in bezel by his pen
The diamonds that he catches as
they fall
From parted lips and opened tomes from when
Our
wasted words were fresh of scholar's scrawl,
But I can't find a chain so precious as
To hold your
whisper.
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