She paints, and when she paints
I love her more.
She paints her face so beautifully
That art critics who enter by the back door
Know all at once what painting and poetry is for.
They sadly recognize that when you say
“I love you” it could be on the very day
You leave, because you said it only to make someone glad,
And when the words fled to them, they made you sad.
We think nothing, but only say what we think we ought to say
Until the red shadows come and we vanish in the blue day.
But now she presents herself at the front of the hall,
And even you look at her, and even you will fall
On your knees and worship her. And that is all.