Classic Poem

Art needs thee, gentle lady. Where dost thou
Yet tarry? Art is weeping through the night,
And though above his head the stars are bright
He needs thy hand to wreathe them round his brow.
The sonnets wave white wings and to thee call:
Imagination's hand is on the plough:
Fancies arise like wreaths of mist and fall:
Blossoms of thought before the soft breeze bow.

But where dost thou abide, O soul of Art?
What songs are soothing now thy world-worn heart?
Pale Art is dying, lady, for thy kiss:
Oh, wilt not thou arise and save by this?
Sad Art is perishing for lack of thee;
Oh, heal sad Art, — and doing so, save me!