THE POET TO THE ARTIST
59
THE POET TO THE ARTIST
(To E. A. M.)
You painted a beautiful picture
And sent it a gift to me;
So I will write you a poem,—
But what shall the poem be?
Your picture, like beautiful sunset
So brilliant, will ever be praised,—
But my poem will be like a cipher
That some rude, reckless hand has erased!
And sent it a gift to me;
So I will write you a poem,—
But what shall the poem be?
Your picture, like beautiful sunset
So brilliant, will ever be praised,—
But my poem will be like a cipher
That some rude, reckless hand has erased!
Your picture seemed "Tidings of Gladness,"
—As the beautiful rainbow will cast
Its bright, glowing tints on the billows
Of clouds when the tempest is past.
Like the unbounded depth of the Ocean
Is the gratitude felt.—for your gift
Was like rending dark storm-clouds asunder
"When a sunbeam shines bright thro' the rift.
—As the beautiful rainbow will cast
Its bright, glowing tints on the billows
Of clouds when the tempest is past.
Like the unbounded depth of the Ocean
Is the gratitude felt.—for your gift
Was like rending dark storm-clouds asunder
"When a sunbeam shines bright thro' the rift.
Your picture was eagerly welcomed,
—As the first rosy tints of the dawn
Are welcomed by vigilant watchers
When the curtains of Night are withdrawn.
—As the first rosy tints of the dawn
Are welcomed by vigilant watchers
When the curtains of Night are withdrawn.
