Classic Poem

Our artist-spirit, whose desirous hand
Duty had bound to alien labors sore,
Was slipping from us toward the mystic land,
—Our martyr, who had ever hungered more,
In a dumb pain, for beauty than for bread;
And we, who owed to him the finer grace
Of daily life, stood calmed and comforted
Before the revelation of his face.

Surely earth's bright-hued vision,—melting fawn
Of sunset, the autumnal flush and gold,
Translucent summer green, rose-misted dawn,
Sea-blues and sky-blues, colors manifold
So long beloved, on memory glimmering still,
Into celestial glory softly went;
For what but perfect beauty so could fill
His fading eyes with infinite content?