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AN OLD PORTAIT.
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AN OLD PORTRAIT.
HIS time-worn canvas bears a pictured face,
Which, once beheld, comes back to thought again,—
Passionate, proud, yet touched with tender grace,
And marked with lines which tell of hidden pain.
Which, once beheld, comes back to thought again,—
Passionate, proud, yet touched with tender grace,
And marked with lines which tell of hidden pain.
O noble face! in whose compelling eyes
There lurks a power which stays me on my way,
Which thrills me always with a new surprise,
And holds me gazing half the livelong day,—
There lurks a power which stays me on my way,
Which thrills me always with a new surprise,
And holds me gazing half the livelong day,—
Strange eyes, whose earthly task of smiles and tears
Was finished long ago, and sealed in night;
Eyes which were closed in death a hundred years
Before mine own had opened to the light,—
Was finished long ago, and sealed in night;
Eyes which were closed in death a hundred years
Before mine own had opened to the light,—
Why do you haunt me so? Some bitter days,
When all the rose-tints vanish from my sky,
And I go stumbling down life's darkest ways,
I can but think perhaps the reason why
When all the rose-tints vanish from my sky,
And I go stumbling down life's darkest ways,
I can but think perhaps the reason why