Page:The poems of Richard Watson Gilder, Gilder, 1908.djvu/476

448 Yet when that paper petal trembled down,

Spring thrilled the air;

And when she sang, I knew love's hight and depth

And passion and despair.

IN PRAISE OF PORTRAITURE

of souls from out the unknown vast

Flash forth and swift return. Tho' something stays,—

Remembered words and deeds,—the look they wore

Were lost forever save for the art we praise—

The art that holds the fleeting spirit fast:

Afield, in household ways, at rest, a-dance;

The sweet, companionable presence; the austere

Demeanor, hiding a rich heart; the glance,

Intense and penetrant, that says a soul is here.

A soul is here, even as in life it lived,

It wantoned, it impassioned, joyed and grieved;

So might an angel through life's doorway peer,

Half drawing back as if in mortal fear;

So might a lost soul linger, leaving here

Remembrance of the horror of its doom:

A living soul, defiant of the tomb.

Great were the masters of the art we praise,

In other lands, in past and splendid days.

What souls the chief Venetian in his art

Makes to the eye apparent, and the heart!

What warriors, princes, women all of grace:

Beauty of body, loveliness of face!

Master of color, he, well-nigh supreme,

Who nobly drew that which before was dream!

Glorious is Spain in the proud souls that breathe