With palette laden <br />She sat, as I passed her, <br />A dainty maiden <br />Before an Old Master. <br /> <br />What mountain-top is <br />She bent upon? Ah, <br />She neatly copies <br />Murillo's Madonna. <br /> <br />But rapt and brimming <br />The eyes' full chalice says <br />The heart builds dreaming <br />Its fairy-palaces. <br /> <br />* * * <br /> <br />The eighteenth year rolled <br />By, ere returning, <br />I greeted the dear old <br />Scenes with yearning. <br /> <br />With palette laden <br />She sat, as I passed her, <br />A faded maiden <br />Before an Old Master. <br /> <br />But what is she doing? <br />The same thing still--lo, <br />Hotly pursuing <br />That very Murillo! <br /> <br />Her wrist never falters; <br />It keeps her, that poor wrist, <br />With panels for altars <br />And daubs for the tourist. <br /> <br />And so she has painted <br />Through years unbrightened, <br />Till hopes have fainted <br />And hair has whitened. <br /> <br />But rapt and brimming <br />The eyes' full chalice says <br />The heart builds dreaming <br />Its fairy-palaces.<br /><br />Henrik Johan Ibsen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-the-picture-gallery/
