Chiaro-Oscuro.

SOMEHOW I love to look at the picture I made of her,

Work of an idle time, the summer of life's long year;

For as I stand and gaze, dreaming of those lost days,

Almost it seems to me I can see her sitting here.

That is the way she sat, with her head a trifle raised,

Looking thoughtfully out at a scene I could never see.

Delicate color of rose dawning and dying down,

Flushing the rare sweet face as she listened or spoke to me.

Whitest light of the sky I showered on her upturned brow,

Gathered the darkest shades and brushed them into her hair,

Thinking the while I worked of the law that always sends

The deepest shadows to follow the high lights everywhere.

Now as I sit and gaze at the dream on the canvas caught,

Sadly the thought comes back, to torture with unbelief —

Why must it always be that the strong white light of love

Is followed forevermore by the deepest shadow of grief?