She; a slow burning serenade,
Was renaissance to shallow art,
By sculptor new to passion’s blade,
And all such matters of the heart.
 
With stone he’d imitate in vain-
Her eyes; pearl stars which guided night,
Her smile; sweetest summer rain,
Her laugh; soft song of birds in flight.
 
Love a rosy lens unto life,
Heard art in both the loud and hushed.
Love was warmth in coldest strife,
Yellow and pink like heaven’s blush.
 
Such tender hues, dusk held high,
‘Till death did break the fervent sky.
 
His love for art fell through the cracks
As life stopped with her final breath.
Now two shadows rehearse their acts,
Hers of living and his of death.
 
She wears naught but eternal youth,
And he; the constant lash of age.
In thought, he sits, worn and aloof,
Awaiting his life’s final page.
 
He knows now what he sees in art,
Living, dying, not far apart.