A PAINTED FAN. 



Roses and butterflies snared on a fan, 

 All that is left of a summer gone by; 



Of swift, bright wings that flashed in the sun. 

 And loveliest blossoms that bloomed to die ! 



By what subtle spell did you lure them here. 

 Fixing a beauty that will not change ; 



Roses whose petals never will fall. 



Bright, swift wings that never will range ? 



Had you owned but the skill to snare as well 

 The swift-winged hours that came and went. 



To prison the words that in music died, 

 And fix with a spell the heart's content. 



Then had you been of magicians the chief; 



And loved and lovers should bless your art. 

 If you could but have painted the soul of the thing,- 



Not the rose alone, but the rose's heart ! 



