Page:Maurine and Other Poems (1910).pdf/74

 By looking on the man I had resigned, With any hidden feeling in my mind, Which she, his wife, my friend, might not have known He was but little altered. From his face The nonchalant and almost haughty grace, The lurking laughter waiting in his eyes, The years had stolen, leaving in their place A settled sadness, which was not despair, Nor was it gloom, nor weariness, nor care, But something like the vapour o’er the skies Of Indian summer, beautiful to see, But spoke of frosts, which had been and would be. There was that in his face which cometh not, Save when the soul has many a battle fought, And conquered self by constant sacrifice.

There are two sculptors, who, with chisels fine, Render the plainest features half divine. All other artists strive and strive in vain, To picture beauty perfect and complete. Their statues only crumble at their feet, Without the master touch of Faith and Pain. And now his face, that perfect seemed before, Chiselled by these two careful artists, wore A look exalted, which the spirit gives When soul has conquered, and the body lives Subservient to its bidding.

In a room Which curtained out the February gloom, And, redolent with perfume, bright with flowers, Rested the eye like one of Summer’s bowers, I found my Helen, who was less mine now Than Death’s; for on the marble of her brow His seal was stamped indelibly.

Her form Was like the slender willow, when some storm Has stripped it bare of foliage. Her face, Pale always, now was ghastly in its hue: And, like two lamps, in some dark, hollow place, Burned her large eyes, grown more intensely blue. Her fragile hands displayed each cord and vein, And on her mouth was that drawn look, of pain Which is not uttered. Yet an inward light Shone through and made her wasted features bright