The Two Artists (Naden)
The Two Artists, by Constance Naden (1858-1889)
“Edith is fair,” the painter said,
“Her cheek so richly glows,
My palette ne’er could match the red
Of that pure damask rose.
“Perchance, the evening rain‐drops light,
Soft sprinkling from above,
Have caught the sunset’s colour bright,
And borne it to my love.
“In distant regions I must seek
For tints before unknown,
Ere I can paint the brilliant cheek
That blooms for me alone.”
All this his little sister heard,
Who frolicked by his side;
To check such theories absurd,
That gay young sprite replied:
“Oh, I can tell you where to get
That pretty crimson bloom,
For in a bottle it is set
In Cousin Edith’s room.
“I’m sure that I could find the place,
If you want some to keep;
I watched her put it on her face—
She didn’t see me peep!
“So nicely she laid on the pink,
As well as you could do,
And really, I almost think
She is an artist, too.”
The maddened painter tore his hair,
And vowed he ne’er would wed,
And never since, to maiden fair,
A tender word has said.
Bright ruby cheeks, and skin of pearl,
He knows a shower may spoil,
And when he wants a blooming girl
Paints one himself in oil.