Classic Poem

Well the artist loves his art,
Hides it deep within his heart;
Patient with his changeful moods,
It pervades his solitudes.

If he be not swift to go
Where the bugles loudest blow,
In his dream or vision vast,
He will build the things that last.

He must lure from wood and stone
Glorious forms to face his own;
Somehow, with a simple pen,
Write the songs that gladden men.

He will capture fleeting shapes;
Show the tree the tempest shakes;
Paint the sacred thought that lies
In the depth of human eyes.

He can make the cities fair,
Lift cathedrals in the air;
Where the arches highest spring,
Send his music thundering.

Yet within the artist's breast
Shall be longing, vague unrest;
Form and color, swift as light,
Will evade him in their flight.

Sometimes, even with his own,
He shall dwell apart, alone;
Dearest friend may fail to guess
Half his joy or loneliness.

Hope may falter, Love may die,
Fame may cease to signify;
But his art will always be
Comrade, Guide, good company.

Well the artist loves his art,
Hides it deep within his heart;
Patient with his changeful moods,
It pervades his solitudes.

If he be not swift to go
Where the bugles loudest blow,
In his dream or vision vast,
He will build the things that last.

He must lure from wood and stone
Glorious forms to face his own;
Somehow, with a simple pen,
Write the songs that gladden men.

He will capture fleeting shapes;
Show the tree the tempest shakes;
Paint the sacred thought that lies
In the depth of human eyes.

He can make the cities fair,
Lift cathedrals in the air;
Where the arches highest spring,
Send his music thundering.

Yet within the artist's breast
Shall be longing, vague unrest;
Form and color, swift as light,
Will evade him in their flight.

Sometimes, even with his own,
He shall dwell apart, alone;
Dearest friend may fail to guess
Half his joy or loneliness.

Hope may falter, Love may die,
Fame may cease to signify;
But his art will always be
Comrade, Guide, good company.