"FOLDED HANDS."THE STORY OF A PICTURE.
Madonna eyes looked at him from the air,
But never from the picture. Still he painted.
The hovering halo would not touch the hair;
The patient saint still stared at him—unsainted.
But never from the picture. Still he painted.
The hovering halo would not touch the hair;
The patient saint still stared at him—unsainted.
Day after day flashed by in flower and frost;
Night after night, how fast the stars kept burning
His little light away, till all was lost!—
All, save the bitter sweetness of his yearning.
Night after night, how fast the stars kept burning
His little light away, till all was lost!—
All, save the bitter sweetness of his yearning.
Slowly he saw his work: it was not good.
Ah, hopeless hope! A, fiercely-dying passion!
"I am no painter," moaned he as he stood,
With folded hands in death's unconscious fashion.
Ah, hopeless hope! A, fiercely-dying passion!
"I am no painter," moaned he as he stood,
With folded hands in death's unconscious fashion.
"Stand as you are, an instant!" some one cried.
He felt the voice of a diviner brother.
The man who was a painter, at his side,
Showed how his folded hands could serve another.
He felt the voice of a diviner brother.
The man who was a painter, at his side,
Showed how his folded hands could serve another.
