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 | The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder |  |
215
ELEONORA DUSE
If ever flashed upon this mortal sceneA soul unsheathèd, a pale, trembling flame,
That suffered every gust, and yet did cling
With fire unquenchable—it is thine own,
Thou artist of the real! Unto thee
No mirth of life is secret; but, sweet soul,
With what sure art thou picturest human woe!
How natural tears to those Italian eyes—
Shadowing in untold depths whatever grief
Familiar is to mortals!
| The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder | |