Opals (Custance)/The Poet's Picture
For other versions of this work, see The Poet's Picture (Custance).
The Poet's Picture
The pent-up passion of her soulDeepens the pallor of her face,Against her throbbing heart the wholeWide sorrow of the world finds place,And deep compassion and love's grace.
The brow half hid by curling hair,Is like a child's—so pure and white—Sweet words have made the rose-lips fair—And in the wistful eyes a flightOf fluctuant dreams pass, day and night.
Frail girl in whom God's glories meet!Why was she so divinely made?Surely the angels, when complete Her radiant spirit stood arrayedIn such fair flesh, felt half afraid!
The dust of earthly days and yearsScarce dims her delicate loveliness—Only the eyelids, tired of tears,Droop low their flower-like pallidnessBruised faintly by pain's bitterness.
Only her hands like ivoryAre stained a little by the sun,And roughed with constant use—for sheIs careless of their beauty wonFrom dawn of life so easily.
Alas! that her slim feet should treadThe world's uneven stony ways!That she should know dull cares and dread Long lonely nights and sordid days,Being so fashioned for love's praise.
Lest she should sin or faint from fear,Let one swift angel heed my prayer,And straight descending to this sphereSpread wide wings o'er her everywhere,—Lest she should fall who is so dear!