Fruit and Flower Painter

She dens in a garret
As void as a drum;
In lieu of plum-pudding —
She paints the plum!

No use in my grieving,
The shops I must suit:
Broken hearts are but potsherds —
Paint flowers and fruit!

How whistles her garret,
A seine for the snows:
She hums Si fortuna ,
And — paints the rose!

December is howling,
But feign it a flute:
Help on the deceiving —
Paint flowers and fruit!