My Portrait

Well, thou art done, cold, speechless thing;
Yet, in thy silence, with the power
A crowd of feelings deep to bring
Unknown until the present hour.

But wherefore done, to life so true?
Not human pride, nor vanity
Could ask the artist hand to do,
And show the world a deed like thee.

And was it simple most, or kind
To have upon the canvass cast
My semblance, thus to leave behind
My shadow, when myself am past?

I know not if another eye
Will ever weep beside thee, more
Than mine does now, I know not why—
It never dropped such tears before.

I view thee as a piece, composed
To last, when I have passed from sight—
When time and earth to me are closed,
To be in time and earthly light.

Perhaps 't is this, that makes me weep—
The thought that I shall pass away,
And those, who have thee then to keep,
May glance at thee, and still be gay.

But why should grief be felt by me,
For fear that others will not grieve?
And what to others then will be
A shade of life, that I may leave?

Still, from their deep, mysterious spring
Gush up these hot, resistless tears;
Whilst thou, cold, heartless, stoic thing,
Dost wear a smile that's set for years.

Years! Ah, but then, when years shall wipe
From being every line of thee,
The spirit, which thy prototype
Enshrined, shall live eternally!