The Poet’s Picture
By Olive Custance
The pent-up passion of her soul
Deepens the pallor of her face,
Against her throbbing heart the whole
Wide sorrow of the world finds place,
And deep compassion and love’s grace.
The forehead 'neath the cloudy hair
Is like a child’s—so pure and white—
Sweet words have curved the rose-lips fair—
And in the wistful eyes a flight
Of fluctuant dreams pass, day and night.
Frail girl in whom God’s glories meet,
Why was she so divinely made?
Surely the angels, when complete
Her radiant spirit stood arrayed
In such fair flesh, felt half afraid!
The
