Paint me not when at my best,
In gown, tiara, fancy dressed,
For I would not the world to see,
A woman who was never me.
Blood is writ upon my face,
My beauty true reflects my race,
Blessed am I by nature’s mien,
My breeding is more purer seen.
Artist, if I pose for thee,
Then paint what I would daily be,
In simple dress and hair undone,
To please the man whose heart I won.
Sackcloth, ashes, common dress,
Woe to those who would impress,
Those seduced by gown and jewel,
For they shall blind no one but fool.
Why would I be other self?
Better left a maid on shelf,
Far preferred as nature made,
Not dowager but country maid.
Michael (Walsh) 12.07.13