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133
ART'S EXTREMES
Proudly the father,
Lowly the wife,
Bends o'er a child sleeping,
Dearer than life.
Pride speaks in the father,
Love is mute in the wife,—
‘Did ever a painter
Paint like Life?’
Lowly the wife,
Bends o'er a child sleeping,
Dearer than life.
Pride speaks in the father,
Love is mute in the wife,—
‘Did ever a painter
Paint like Life?’
Heavy the footfall,
Laboured the breath;
One quitteth the chamber
Held by Death.
His gaze is estranged,
All strangely he saith—
‘Was there ever a sculptor
Wrought like Death?’
Laboured the breath;
One quitteth the chamber
Held by Death.
His gaze is estranged,
All strangely he saith—
‘Was there ever a sculptor
Wrought like Death?’
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