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Singer Sargent

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  • Singer Sargent

    I stood before your painting for three days in a row;
    Studied the mist of her face and hand that held a rose.
    The oak cheek, the darkened eyes, I memorized her smile
    and luminous black silk shades shifting in her dress
    She spoke to me, “I’m not a rose, I find these pedals vile.”
    What fortress form and forward look frozen in her pose!
    Heart flows her life in me and my eyes hate to go.
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