Meanwhile, the maiden from her model’s throne Lists the brown bees intone, Antiphonal to lady-wasps that pass Across the north-light’s glass;

A squirrel quarrels with the elm-tree’s leaves; Beneath the studio eaves The circling swifts dispute, in serried flight The bluebirds’ manor right;

Within, high images of knight and priest, Girded for old-time feast, And warriors of to-day, and lights o’ the law Contrive their air of awe;

Damsels fair-filleted, in chiton trim, Advance with symbols dim, While Fia parts wide silences to speak, “Are all the virtues Greek?”

The sculptor, pacing, plies his antique art As in a world apart, Since many a message yet must go and come ’Twixt master eye and thumb;

And artists aye must meditate at ease Their chosen mysteries, While only little sitters ever know That sitter’s hour, how slow!

Ah, guiled by gazing into purple hills, And saying “Daffodils,” Or sweet short story of the Lucy-star, Or tale of “Lochinvar,”

That hour, an earthly hour, not long will stay! Fia will flee away Into the sunset, carolling, “Oh when,-- When shall I come again?”