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Poems (Linn)/A Landscape in Oils

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4649398Poems — A Landscape in OilsEdith Willis Linn
A LANDSCAPE IN OILS.
THOUGH autumn, yet you somehow feelThat blue-bells blossomed here in spring;No artist that has ever livedCould paint the song that thrushes sing;And yet it seems that one could hearThe thrushes from those birches near.
There is a something that invitesThe 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 bearsSuggestions of some higher thing;As more than form or tint of birdWe prize the song he stops to sing:So genius is the power to guide,And show the heart, life's nobler side.