The Painter

I talked with a young painter,
And as we came along Beekman Street
My eye dwelt upon the shining audacity
of the Woolworth Building.
But he was peering downward along the curb
Where were clear pools of melted snow.
" See! " he cried,
" That's how it ought to be painted! "
There, reflected in a long panel of water,
Sharp and exquisite, was the pale tower —
Enriching every puddle in the neighbourhood.

True! I said —
Beauty is like the Medusa:
Look her in the face, and you run mad;
But, like Perseus,
Study her reflection in the polished shield.
Look upon life in the mirror of some art
And, perhaps, you will stay sane.
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