Faded pictures

Only two patient eyes to stare

Out of the canvas. All the rest—

The warm green gown, the small hands pressed

Light in the lap, the braided hair

That must have made the sweet low brow

So earnest, centuries ago,

When some one saw it change and glow—

All faded! Just the eyes burn now.

I dare say people pass and pass

Before the blistered little frame,

And dingy work without a name

Stuck in behind its square of glass.

But I, well, I left Raphael

Just to come drink these eyes of hers,

To think away the stains and blurs

And make all new again and well.

Only, for tears my head will bow,

Because there on my heart's last wall,

Scarce one tint left to tell it all,

A picture keeps its eyes, somehow.