His Ideal

How glorious glows the brightness of your brow!
How radiant shines the wind-fall of your hair!
How gallant down the trees before you bow
As high upon that hilltop stand you fair.
Your light hands seem to lightly lift the sky,
Your lips half parted in a laugh so soft
That could I hear it I would gladly die
To live one minute in this art aloft.
Ideal painted being of my master’s soul,
I, common worker who but sweeps the floor,
I have you every night in my control
And work unpaid for past the hour four
To image in this glory he designed
And keep, unshared, your beauty in my mind.

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