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!”