Page:Poems Emma M. Ballard Bell.djvu/183

Have wrought upon the dwelling of the soulTheir fatal work. And day by day her stepGrows slower and more weary; and the glowThat fled her cheek upon that fearful nightWhen in the presence of the dead she stoodWith face as ghastly as their own, shall ne'erReturn. Yet for her art she still would live,And patiently yet longingly she waitsFor strength to paint ideals of her soulThat strongly for their own expression urge.

But hope deferred grows weary; and resolveAt length attempts alone, what strength denies;And on the canvas traced with trembling handAre outlined forms that coloring but waitTo give to them most wondrous lovely life,And then her hand drops pow'rless from its task.A mighty desolation fills her soul,—The signal of the death of hope. She cries,"My soul, this earth hath nothing more for thee.Where art thou, O my Father? take me home!"

And soon a message to Crucè she sends,Transcribed by friendly hand, and reading thus:"My days are few. I'm passing swiftly hence.Had I not so much suffered, not so greatHad been this strength of soul, these added pow'rs;