The Sea

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 Aphroditè arose from its spray;
And it broke, as she gazed on its face the while,
Into its countless-dimpled smile.
“What a poky, 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,
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 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!”