She, knowing he had loved her long,
though secretly she loathed
him, sought him out and asked
a portrait for her now betrothed.
In her employ, he went each day;
beyond her winding stair
she posed in flowing silks upon
an ornate velvet chair.
He labored long, painstakingly,
till each day's light grew dim,
his brushes knowing as they moved
her smile was not for him.
When finished, he sat gathering
his oils, prepared to go.
Laughingly, she taunted him
for having loved her so.
He asked no fee as he arose
and left her standing there,
staring at his painting of
an empty velvet chair.
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