But swept on the full current of desire     

       Would steer our course with unimpeded hands,     

       Watching the pleasure in each other's eyes.     

       Ah well, 'tis vain to talk! Two-thirds of life     

       Till now I've spent in spotless purity—     

       Affection's been retarded by desire     

       As has my work; my dreams have far excelled     

       The beauty God moulds into human shape.     

       The sweet perfection of the womankind     

       Who haunt my brain, has held me back from love.     

       This . . . this was so till Mona Lisa came.     

  

       Four years I've painted when it was her day,     

       A day of mist, of mingled rain and sun;     

       Four years before me silently she's sat     

       And smiled to see me strive to catch her smile     

       In liquid paint, with canvas and with brush,     

       So that her eyes, searching, inscrutable,     

       May question her sons' sons when she is dust.     

       I only just begin to know her face.     

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