The painting’s bad, but still–oh, still I see
Her little face all laughing in the light.
So now you understand.–I live in fear
Lest one like you should carry it away;
A poor, pot-boiling thing, but oh, how dear!
“Don’t let them buy it, pitying God!” I pray!
And hark ye, sir–sometimes my brain’s awhirl.
Some night I’ll crash Into that window pane
And snatch my picture back, my little girl,
And run and run.…
I’m talking wild again;
A crab can’t run. I’m crippled, withered, lame,
Palsied, as good as dead all down one side.
No warning had I when the evil came:
It struck me down in all my strength and pride.
Triumph was mine, I thrilled with perfect power;
Honor was mine, Fame’s laurel touched my brow;
Glory was mine–within a little hour
I was a god and… what you find me now.
My child, that little, laughing girl you see,
She was my nurse for all ten weary years;
Her joy, her hope, her youth she gave for me;
Her very smiles were masks to hide her tears.
And I, my precious art, so rich, so rare,
Lost, lost to me–what could my heart but break!
Oh, as I lay and wrestled with despair,
I would have killed myself but for her sake.…
By luck I had some pictures I could sell,
And so we fought the wolf back from the door;
