Explore "In the Studio" by Olive Tilford Dargan on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Bowed in the firelight's softly climbing gleam, / I sit a shadow, in a shadow's place; / While through the great, grey window vaguely stream / Twilight caresses on each pictured face / That one hour gone was cold in art's repose; / Now each still canvas answers tremblingly, / Till eyes unveil and living spirit glows / Where no light was while the rude Day went by. / And rudest Day, that passed so sternly bare, / Cold as the life that walks without desire, / Unbeauteous as duty or despair, / Plucked by a hope that will not set her free, / Turns back, while memory's soft, informing fire / Falls on her face, and Beauty looks at me.