Page:Bijou Almanacks.pdf/28



Thy hand is cold!—thy colors weave Their graceful lines no more! Yet, painter of each lovely face That lit our island shore, These faces from the canvass shine, And haunt us still with thee and thine.

Hero and beauty—all who ﬂung Their spell around their day— Owe to thy pencil memories That will not pass away; The past—the present seems to be, Thanks to thy art and thee!