Poems (Procter)/My Picture

by Adelaide Anne Procter

MY PICTURE.

TAND this way—more near the window—
 By my desk—you see the light
Falling on my picture better—
 Thus I see it while I write!

Who the head may be I know not,
 But it has a student air;
With a look half sad, half stately,
 Grave sweet eyes and flowing hair.

Little care I who the painter,
 How obscure a name he bore;
Nor, when some have named Velasques
 Did I value it the more.

As it is, I would not give it
 For the rarest piece of art;
It has dwelt with me, and listened
 To the secrets of my heart.

Many a time, when to my garret,
 Weary, I returned at night,
It has seemed to look a welcome
 That has made my poor room bright.

Many a time, when ill and sleepless,
 I have watched the quivering gleam
Of my lamp upon that picture,
 Till it faded in my dream.

When dark days have come, and friendship
 Worthless seemed, and life in vain,
That bright friendly smile has sent me
 Boldly to my task again.

Sometimes when hard need has pressed ma
 To bow down where I despise,
I have read stern words of counsel
 In those sad, reproachful eyes.

Nothing that my brain imagined,
 Or my weary hand has wrought,
But it watched the dim Idea
 Spring forth into armed Thought.

It has smiled on my successes,
 Raised me when my hopes were low,
And by turns has looked upon me
 With all the loving eyes I know.

Do you wonder that my picture
 Has become so like a friend?—
It has seen my life's beginnings,
 It shall stay and cheer the end!