IN THE ATELIER.

IN THE ATELIER.
511.4

I thought that love was such a little thing!
That one might keep it always at his side,
Scabbarded like a sword, at peace to bide
Its need in times of dearth and clamoring.
I had it there, but unremembering
I put it off one day, that I might glide
A freer hand across the work that cried
One consummating touch. It rose. Took wing.

And now ’tis gone. There lie the broken rames
Of what with toil and care and crooning song
I sweated over, strong in sweet belief, In dauntless hope.
Oh, leave me! Low the flames
Are flickering.
This life is not so long,
A biding while within the house of grief!
-James E. Richardson