The problem with sitting for a portrait by Rembrandt
Was that if you didn't have a soul he'd make you one
From whatever was at hand -- a half-dead flower, say
Or a kitten's shadow and a handful of spoons.
They were wonderful souls but inconvenient
And hard to grow used to. They never wore out;
Turning up even now, looking across a canal
Or examining light falling on a piece of brocade
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