Page:Maurine and Other Poems (1910).pdf/68

 The acorn sprouted—weeds nor flowers can choke The certain growth of th’ upreaching oak.

Talent was mine, not Genius; and my mind Seemed bound by chains, and would not leave behind Its selfish love and sorrow.

Did I strive To picture some emotion, lo! his eyes, Of emerald beauty, dark as ocean dyes, Looked from the canvas: and my buried pain Rose from its grave, and stood by me alive. Whate’er my subject, in some hue or line, The glorious beauty of his face would shine.

So for a time my labour seemed in vain, Since it but freshened, and made keener yet, The grief my heart was striving to forget. While in his form all strength and magnitude With grace and supple sinews were entwined, While in his face all beauties were combined Of perfect features, intellect and truth, With all that fine rich colouring of youth, How could my brush portray aught good or fair Wherein no fatal likeness should intrude Of him my soul had worshipped?

But, at last, Setting a watch upon my unwise heart, That thus would mix its sorrow with my art, I resolutely shut away the past, And made the toilsome present passing bright With dreams of what was hidden from my sight In the far distant future, when the soil Should yield me golden fruit for all my toil.

PART VII

With much hard labour and some pleasure fraught, The months rolled by me noiselessly, that taught My hand to grow more skilful in its art, Strengthened my daring dream of fame, and brought Sweet hope and resignation to my heart.

Brief letters came from Helen, now and then: She was quite well—oh yes! quite well, indeed! But still so weak and nervous. By-and-by,