IN THE STUDIO

Bowed in the firelight's softly climbing gleam,

I sit a shadow, in a shadow's place;

While through the great, grey window vaguely stream

Twilight caresses on each pictured face

That one hour gone was cold in art's repose;

Now each still canvas answers tremblingly,

Till eyes unveil and living spirit glows

Where no light was while the rude Day went by.

And rudest Day, that passed so sternly bare,

Cold as the life that walks without desire,

Unbeauteous as duty or despair,

Plucked by a hope that will not set her free,

Turns back, while memory's soft, informing fire

Falls on her face, and Beauty looks at me.