Classic Poem

The vanished form which is of all most dear
I cannot image in my thought to-day,
While many another rises full and clear
That I could well forbear to miss alway.

The face I used to pass upon the street,
But pass no more, looks out upon me still:
Why is the sight of him thus incomplete
Whom Love depicted with a master-skill?

I strain the inward eye for just a trace
Of him who sat to Love a year ago:
Why thus disjoined the precious form and face,
When a mere stranger's meet and greet me so?

Ah! Grief that works like age, but weirder still,
Turning the young to old in one short night!
Is it not she obscures so aTher will
What hung upon my soul in colors bright?

Priceless the darkened masterpiece to-day.
Although the centuries have made it dim,
They cannot steal the master's trace away:
The faintest curve or cast will tell of him.

And so the relics of this master. Love,
Through cycle-days of grief though grown obscure,
Dearer than all the vivid pictures prove:
Each dimmed and isolated trait is pure.