The Artist-Artisans

They have painted a miracle-shawl
Of cobwebs and whispering shadows,
And trellised leaves that ripple on a wall.

They have broidered a tissue of cost,
Spun foam of the sea
And lilied imagery of the vanishing frost.

Her floating skirts have run
Like iridescent marshes,
~ Or like the tossed hair of a stormy sun.

Her silver cloak has shone
Blue as a mummy’s beads,
Green as the ice-glints of an Arctic zone

She is weary and has lain
- At last her body down.
What, with her clothing’s beauty, they have slain!