Poems (Linn)/A Landscape in Oils
Appearance
A LANDSCAPE IN OILS.
THOUGH autumn, yet you somehow feel That blue-bells blossomed here in spring;No artist that has ever lived Could paint the song that thrushes sing;And yet it seems that one could hearThe thrushes from those birches near.
There is a something that invites The weary breast to heave a sigh;There is a house behind that hill; That flowery path that wanders by,Has often been by lovers trodWho plighted troth alone with God.
True art, like nature, ever bears Suggestions of some higher thing;As more than form or tint of bird We prize the song he stops to sing:So genius is the power to guide,And show the heart, life's nobler side.