Why did I sketch an upland green,

   And put the figure in

   Of one on the spot with me?—

For now that one has ceased to be seen

   The picture waxes akin

   To a wordless irony.

If you go drawing on down or cliff

   Let no soft curves intrude

   Of a woman’s silhouette,

But show the escarpments stark and stiff

   As in utter solitude;

   So shall you half forget.

Let me sooner pass from sight of the sky

   Than again on a thoughtless day

   Limn, laugh, and sing, and rhyme

With a woman sitting near, whom I

   Paint in for love, and who may

   Be called hence in my time!

From an old note.