And that lace at her throat--and the fluttering hands Snowing there, with a grace that no art understands The flakes of their touches--first fluttering at The bow--then the roses--the hair--and then that Little tilt of the Gainsborough hat. What artist on earth, with a model like this, Holding not on his palette the tint of a kiss, Nor a pigment to hint of the hue of her hair, Nor the gold of her smile--O what artist could dare To expect a result half so fair? [Illustration: (A CAMEO FACE)] SUSPENSE A woman's figure, on a ground of night Inlaid with sallow stars that dimly stare Down in the lonesome eyes, uplifted there As in vague hope some alien lance of light Might pierce their woe. The tears that blind her sight-- The salt and bitter blood of her despair-- Her hands toss back through torrents of her hair And grip toward God with anguish infinite. And O the carven mouth, with all its great Intensity of longing frozen fast In such a smile as well may designate The slowly murdered heart, that, to the last Conceals each newer wound, and back at Fate Throbs Love's eternal lie--"Lo, I can wait!" [Illustration: (SUSPENSE)] [Illustration: (TOM VAN ARDEN--TITLE)] TOM VAN ARDEN Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Our warm fellowship is one Far too old to comprehend Where its bond was first begun: Mirage-like before my gaze Gleams a land of other days, Where two truant boys, astray, Dream their lazy lives away. There's a vision, in the guise Of Midsummer, where the Past Like a weary beggar lies In the shadow Time has cast; And as blends the bloom of trees With the drowsy hum of bees, Fragrant thoughts and murmurs blend, Tom Van Arden, my old friend. Tom Van Arden, my old friend, All the pleasures we have known Thrill me now as I extend This old hand and grasp your own-- Feeling, in the rude caress, All affection's tenderness; Feeling, though the touch be rough, Our old souls are soft enough. So we'll make a mellow hour; Fill your pipe, and taste the wine-- Warp your face, if it be sour, I can spare a smile from mine; If it sharpen up your wit, Let me feel the edge of it-- I have eager ears to lend, Tom Van Arden, my old friend. [Illustration: (TOM VAN ARDEN)] Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Are we "lucky dogs," indeed? Are we all that we pretend In the jolly life we lead?-- Bachelors, we must confess Boast of "single blessedness" To the world, but not alone-- Man's best sorrow is his own. And the saddest truth is this,-- Life to us has never proved What we tasted in the kiss Of the women we have loved: Vainly we congratulate Our escape from such a fate As their lying lips could send, Tom Van Arden, my old friend!