A Painted Fan

Roses and butterflies snared on a fan,

All that is left of a summer gone by;

Of swift, bright wings that flashed in the sun,

And loveliest blossoms that bloomed to die!

By what subtle spell did you lure them here,

Fixing a beauty that will not change,--

Roses whose petals never will fall,

Bright, swift wings that never will range?

Had you owned but the skill to snare as well

The swift-winged hours that came and went,

To prison the words that in music died,

And fix with a spell the heart's content,

Then had you been of magicians the chief;

And loved and lovers should bless your art,

If you could but have painted the soul of the thing,--

Not the rose alone, but the rose's heart!

Flown are those days with their winged delights,

As the odor is gone from the summer rose;

Yet still, whenever I wave my fan,

The soft, south wind of memory blows.

--Louise Chandler Moulton