Page:Poems Dorr.djvu/372

All had passed—the pride, the power,
Of the soul's creative hour—
Exaltation's soaring flight
To the spirit's loftiest height.

Had he dared to paint the Lord?
Dared to paint the Christ, the Word?
Ah, the folly! Ah, the sin!
Ah, the shame his soul within!
Saints might turn on him their eyes
From the hills of Paradise,
But the painter could not brook
On that pictured face to look.

Yet the form was grand and fair,
Fit to move a world to prayer;
God-like in its strength and stress,
Human in its tenderness.
From it streamed the Light divine,
O'er it drooped the heavenly vine,
And beneath the bending spray
Stood the Life, the Truth, the Way!

Suddenly with eager hold,
Back he swept the curtain's fold,
Letting all the sunset glow
O'er the living canvas flow.
Surely then the wondrous eyes
Met his own in tenderest wise,
And the Lord Christ, half revealed,
Smiled upon him as he kneeled!

Trembling, throbbing, quick as thought,
Up he brush and palette caught,
And where deepest shade was thrown