A work of Art thou art, if truth be told
Created and conceived to please one’s eye
Perchance no finer sight wouldst e’er behold
No image framed, more beauty couldst imply
Feint brushstrokes in your hair, seem quite innate
Upon appraisal of technique suffused
Such flowing lines add movement to your gait
When e’er thou chanced to stroll; as if one oozed
Of primary importance colours worn
Enhancing of the day, in crimson threads
Which billow in the breeze from early morn’
To catch the viewers’ eyes and turn their heads
Possession can’t be sought I do beseech
Tho’ I wouldst bid thee all beyond my reach