Page:Maurine and Other Poems (1910).pdf/69

 When baby, being older, should not need Such constant care, she would grow strong again. She was as happy as a soul could be; No least cloud hovered in her azure sky; She had not thought life held such depths of bliss. Dear baby sent Maurine a loving kiss, And said she was a naughty, naughty girl, Not to come home and see ma’s little pearl. No gift of costly jewels, or of gold, Had been so precious or so dear to me, As each brief line wherein her joy was told. It lightened toil, and took the edge from pain, Knowing my sacrifice was not in vain.

Roy purchased fine estates in Scotland, where He built a pretty villa-like retreat. And when the Roman Summer’s languid heat Made work a punishment, I turned my face Toward the Highlands, and with Roy and Grace Found rest and freedom from all thought and care.

I was a willing worker. Not an hour Passed idly by me: each, I would employ To some good purpose, ere it glided on To swell the tide of hours forever gone. My first completed picture, known as “Joy,” Won pleasant words of praise. “Possesses power,” “Displays much talent,” “Very fairly done.” So fell the comments on my grateful ear.

Swift in the wake of Joy, and always near, Walks her sad sister Sorrow. So my brush Began depicting Sorrow, heavy-eyed, With pallid visage, ere the rosy flush Upon the beaming face of Joy had dried. The careful study of long months, it won Golden opinions; even bringing forth That certain sign of merit—a critique Which set both pieces down as daubs, and weak As empty heads that sang their praises—so Proving conclusively the pictures’ worth. These critics and reviewers do not use Their precious ammunition to abuse A worthless work. That, left alone, they know Will find its proper level; and they aim Their batteries at rising works which claim