BOWED in the firelight's softly climbing gleam, I sit a shadow, in a shadow's place; While through the great, gray window vaguely steam Twilight caresses on each pictured face That one hour gone was cold in art's repose; Now each still canvas answers tremblingly, Till eyes unveil and living spirit glows Where no light was while the rude Day went by. And rudest Day, that passed so sternly bare, Cold as the life that walks without desire, Unbeauteous as duty or despair, Plucked by a hope that will not set her free, Turns back, while memory's soft, informing fire Falls on her face, and Beauty looks at me. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DOROTHY'S DOWER by PHOEBE CARY THE MAN HE KILLED by THOMAS HARDY HIS PRAYER TO BEN JONSON by ROBERT HERRICK A DEAD HARVEST (IN KENSINGTON GARDENS) by ALICE MEYNELL AUTUMN AND SPRING by JULIA COOLEY ALTROCCHI WESTWARD BOUND by BETSY H. ASHMORE BOOKS ET VERITAS by WILLIAM ROSE BENET NO SORROW PECULIAR TO THE SUFFERER by VINCENT BOURNE IN THE GARDEN (WITH APOLOGIES TO ALFRED NOYES) by MARJORIE W. BRACHLOW |