She was rich and of high degree;
A poor and unknown artist he.
"Paint me," she said, "a view of the sea."
So he painted the sea as it looked the day
That Aphrodite arose from its spray;
And it broke, as she gazed in its face the while
Into its countless-dimpled smile.
"What a pokey stupid picture," said she;
"I don't believe he _can_ paint the sea!"
Then he painted a raging, tossing sea,
Storming, with fierce and sudden shock,
Wild cries, and writhing tongues of foam,
A towering, mighty fastness-rock.
In its sides above those leaping crests,
The thronging sea-birds built their nests.
"What a disagreeable daub!" said she;
"Why it isn't anything like the sea!"
Then he painted a stretch of hot, brown sand,
With a big hotel on either hand,
And a handsome pavilion for the band,--
Not a sign of the water to be seen
Except one faint little streak of green.
"What a perfectly exquisite picture," said she;
"It's the very _image_ of the sea."
--_Century Magazine_.