POEMS.
THE MASTER'S HAND.
The scroll was old and, gray;
The dust of time. had gathered white and chill
Above the touches of the worker's skill,
And hid their charm away.
The dust of time. had gathered white and chill
Above the touches of the worker's skill,
And hid their charm away.
The many passed it by;
For no sweet curve of dainty face or form,
No gleam of light, or flash of color warm,
Held back the careless eye.
For no sweet curve of dainty face or form,
No gleam of light, or flash of color warm,
Held back the careless eye.
But when the artist came,
With eye that saw beyond the charm of sense,
He seemed to catch a sense of power intense
That filled the dusky frame.
With eye that saw beyond the charm of sense,
He seemed to catch a sense of power intense
That filled the dusky frame.
