IN THE DARK CORNER

By John Gould Fletcher

I brush the dust from this old portrait:

Yes, it is the same face, exactly,

Why does it look at me still with such a look of hate?

I brush the dust from a heap of magazines:

Here there is all what you have written,

All that you struggled long years and went down to darkness for.

O God, to think what I am writing

Will be ever as this!

O God, to think that my own face

May some day glare from this dust!