TO A PHOTOGRAPHER

I have known joy and woe and toil and fight I have lived largely, I have dreamed and planned, And Time, the sculptor, with a master hand, Upon my face has wrought for all men’s sight The lines and seams of Life, of growth and blight, Of struggle and of service and command; And now you show me This—this waxen, bland And placid face—unlined, untroubled, white! This is not I—this fatuous face you show Retouched and prettified and smoothed to please, Put back the wrinkles and the lines I know; I have spent blood and brain achieving these, Out of the pain, the sorrow and the wrack, They are my scars of battle—PUT THEM BACK!