Never to thy childhood known;
Through thy soul a storm has moved—
Gentle mourner, thou hast loved.”
Her first visit was made to the portrait still waiting for her at the studio.
“You will leave me alone with it, please, Florian,” she said, with a quivering lip; and he retired with Mae to the alcove, where in sweet lovers’ talk they took no note of the time that flew while Viola remained motionless before the portrait, gazing with humid eyes at the likeness so faithfully transferred to canvas thinking:
“Oh, that those lips had language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard them last.
Those lips are thine; thine own sweet smile I see,
The same that erst didst gently comfort me.
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say: