And that lace at her throat-- and fluttering hands Snowing there, with a grace that no art understands, The flakes of their touches-- first fluttering at The bow-- then the roses-- the hair and then that Little tilt of the Gainsborough hat. Ah, what artist on earth with a model like this, Holding not on his palette the tint of a kiss, Nor a pigment to hint of the hue of her hair Nor the gold of her smile-- O what artist could dare To expect a result half so fair? _Back From a Two-years' Sentence_ Back from a two-years' sentence! And though it had been ten, You think, I were scarred no deeper In the eyes of my fellow-men. "My fellow-men--?" Sounds like a satire, You think-- and I so allow, Here in my home since childhood, Yet more than a stranger now! Pardon--! Not wholly a stranger--, For I have a wife and child: That woman has wept for two long years, And yet last night she smiled--! Smiled, as I leapt from the platform Of the midnight train, and then-- All that I knew was that smile of hers, And our babe in my arms again! Back from a two-years' sentence-- But I've thought the whole thing through--, A hint of it came when the bars swung back And I looked straight up in the blue Of the blessed skies with my hat off! O-ho! I've a wife and child: That woman has wept for two long years, And yet last night she smiled! _The Wandering Jew_ The stars are falling, and the sky Is like a field of faded flowers; The winds on weary wings go by; The moon hides, and the tempest lowers; And still through every clime and age I wander on a pilgrimage That all men know an idle quest, For that the goal I seek is-- Rest! I hear the voice of summer streams, And following, I find the brink Of cooling springs, with childish dreams Returning as I bend to drink-- But suddenly, with startled eyes, My face looks on its grim disguise Of long gray beard; and so, distressed, I hasten on, nor taste of rest. I come upon a merry group Of children in the dusky wood, Who answer back the owlet's whoop, That laughs as it had understood; And I would pause a little space, But that each happy blossom-face Is like to one His hands have blessed Who sent me forth in search of rest. Sometimes I fain would stay my feet In shady lanes, where huddled kine Couch in the grasses cool and sweet, And lift their patient eyes to mine; But I, for thoughts that ever then Go back to Bethlehem again, Must needs fare on my weary quest, And weep for very need of rest. Is there no end? I plead in vain: Lost worlds nor living answer me. Since Pontius Pilate's awful reign Have I not passed eternity? Have I not drunk the fetid breath Of every fevered phase of death, And come unscathed through every pest And scourge and plague that promised rest?