THE ARTIST


Oh artist, 
I see your unwanted pencil
Busy on portraits
Finished and framed.

See what your lines
Have made of her
That was that turned necks
On unwilling pivots!

And some have erased,
Time and again,
But your pencil, O artist,
Cares not for the desire of man.

Please, I beg of you,
Let not your pencil come near
Until the sunset of no dawn
Shall come for me.

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