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Edmund Clarence Stedman (Эдмунд Кларенс Стедман) Gifford I THE CLOSED STUDIO This was a magician's cell: Beauty's self obeyed his spell! When the air was gloom without, Grace and Color played about Yonder easel. Many a sprite, Golden-winged with heaven's light, Let the upper skies go drear, Spreading his rare plumage here. Skyward now,—alas the day!— See the truant Ariels play! Cloud and air with light they fill, Wandering at idle will, Nor (with half their tasks undone) Stay to mourn the master gone. Only in this hollow room, Now, the stillness and the gloom. II OF WINTER NIGHTS When the long nights return, and find us met Where he was wont to meet us, and the flame On the deep hearth-stone gladdens as of old, And there is cheer, as ever in that place, How shall our utmost nearing close the gap Known, but till then scarce measured? Or what light Of cheer for us, his gracious presence gone, His speech delayed, till none shall fail to miss That halting voice, yet sure, speaking, it seemed The one apt word? For well the painter knew Art's alchemy and law; her nobleness Was in his soul, her wisdom in his speech, And loyalty was housed in that true heart, Gentle yet strong, and yielding not one whit Of right or purpose. Now, not more afar The light of last year's Yule fire than the smile Of Gifford, nor more irreclaimable Its vapor mingled with the wintry air. 1880 Edmund Clarence Stedman's other poems:
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