SOMEHOW I love to look at the picture I made of her,
Work of an idle time, the summer of life's long year;
For as I stand and gaze, dreaming of those lost days,
Almost it seems to me I can see her sitting here.
That is the way she sat, with her head a trifle raised,
Looking thoughtfully out at a scene I could never see.
Delicate color of rose dawning and dying down,
Flushing the rare sweet face as she listened or spoke to me.
Whitest light of the sky I showered on her upturned brow,
Gathered the darkest shades and brushed them into her hair,
Thinking the while I worked of the law that always sends
The deepest shadows to follow the high lights everywhere.
Now as I sit and gaze at the dream on the canvas caught,
Sadly the thought comes back, to torture with unbelief —
Why must it always be that the strong white light of love
Is followed forevermore by the deepest shadow of grief?