Just The Airiest, Fairiest Slip Of A Thing, With A Gainsborough Hat, Like A Butterfly'S Wing, Tilted Up At One Side With The Jauntiest Air, And A Knot Of Red Roses Sown In Under There Where The Shadows Are Lost In Her Hair. Then A Cameo Face, Carven In On A Ground Of That Shadowy Hair Where The Roses Are Wound; And The Gleam Of A Smile O As Fair And As Faint And As Sweet As The Masters Of Old Used To Paint Round The Lips Of Their Favorite Saint! And That Lace At Her Throat - And The Fluttering Hands Snowing There, With A Grace That No Art Understands, The Flakes Of Their Touches - First Fluttering At The Bow - Then The Roses - The Hair - And Then That Little Tilt Of The Gainsborough Hat. O What Artist On Earth With A Model Like This, Holding Not On His Palette The Tint Of A Kiss, Nor A Pigment To Hint Of The Hue Of Her Hair, Nor The Gold Of Her Smile - O What Artist Could Dare To Expect A Result Half So Fair?