Page:Poems Piatt.djvu/86

There's a withering, weird half-picture of me—
 No, of my clothes—on a shadowy wall:
A wonderful painter, they said, was he,
 Who studied my drapery, that was all,
        Not guessing what I might be.

Yet he followed me, in my far, flushed day,
 And thought he knew me, and held me dear;
And now, should I waver across his way,
 He would grow as ghastly as I am, with fear,
        Though he is so wise and grey!

But my beautiful clothes were his despair—
 They were so well-cut, so charmingly made.
It is best that they were not worn threadbare;
 It is best that I did not feel them fade;
        It is best—did he ever care?

I, a thing too fearfully fine to show,
 Or stain the starlight wherein I pass,
Must still have the old, fierce vanity grow,
 Must yearn by the water, as by a glass,
        For a glimpse of—nothing, I know!

Oh, my lovely clothes that I still admire!
 They were only fashioned for moth and rust;