He coveted her portrait. <br />He toiled as she grew gay. <br />She loved to see him labor <br />In that devoted way. <br /> <br />And in the end it pleased her, <br />But bowed him more with care. <br />Her rose-smile showed so plainly, <br />Her soul-smile was not there. <br /> <br />That night he groped without a lamp <br />To find a cloak, a book, <br />And on the vexing portrait <br />By moonrise chanced to look. <br /> <br />The color-scheme was out of key, <br />The maiden rose-smile faint, <br />But through the blessed darkness <br />She gleamed, his friendly saint. <br /> <br />The comrade, white, immortal, <br />His bride, and more than bride— <br />The citizen, the sage of mind, <br />For whom he lived and died.<br /><br />Vachel Lindsay<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-moon-is-a-painter/
