THE IMAGE PAINTER

Up under the roof, in cold or heat,

Far up, aloof from the city street,

She sat all day

And painted gray

Cold idols, scarcely human.

And if she thought of ease and rest,

Of love that spells God's name the best,

Her few friends heard but one request —

“Pray for a tired little woman.”

She sat from dawn till weary dusk.

Her hands plied on — with but a husk

Of bread to break

And for Christ's sake

To bless: was He not human?

Then when the light would leave her brush

She'd sit there still, in the dim hush,

And say aloud, lest tears should rush —

“Pray for a tired little woman.”

They found her so — one morning when

A knock brought no sweet welcome ken

Of her still face

And cloistral grace

And brow so bravely human.

They found her by the window bar,

Her eyes fixed where had been some star.

O you that rest, where'er you are,

Pray for the tired little woman.