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Edith Nesbit - The Last Ditch
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LOVE, through your varied views on Art 
    Untiring have I followed you, 
Content to know I had your heart 
    And was your Art-ideal, too. 


As, dear, I was when first we met. 
    (`Twas at the time you worshipped Leighton, 
And were attempting to forget 
    Your Foster and your Noel Paton.) 


"Love rhymes with Art," said your dear voice, 
    And, at my crude, uncultured age, 
I could but blushingly rejoice 
    That you had passed the Rubens stage. 


When Madox Brown and Morris swayed 
    Your taste, did I not dress and look 
Like any Middle Ages maid 
    In an illuminated book? 


I wore strange garments, without shame, 
    Of formless form and toneless tones, 
I might have stepped out of the frame 
    Of a Rossetti or Burne-Jones. 


I stole soft frills from Marcus Stone, 
    My waist wore Herkomer`s disguise, 
My slender purse was strained, I own, 
    But--my silk lay as Sargent`s lies. 


And when you were abroad--in Prague-- 
    `Mid Cherets I had shone, a star; 
Then for your sake I grew as vague 
    As Mr. Whistler`s ladies are. 


But now at last you sue in vain, 
    For here a life`s submission ends: 
Not even for you will I grow plain 
    As Aubrey Beardsley`s "lady friends." 


Here I renounce your hand--unless 
    You find your Art-ideal elsewhere; 
I will not wear the kind of dress 
    That Laurence Housman`s people wear!
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