You look away, away from him
With luscious eyes that mock
And while your posture could seem grim
The artists spies cold charm

Your beauty cannot be denied
And yet you seem so cruel
For though poor Marc's love may have died
It rises again in this picture

I wonder what you were like to paint?
With your black gloves and bitter eyes
Did you register the slightest complaint?
Did you display the patience of a saint?
Did your posture require muscular restraint?
Did the Russian summer heat make you feel faint?
Your onlooking questions my very soul:
Is unrequited love worth the risk?