Classic Poem

In youthful days Jean Millet drew the nude
In festal forms that tried the prurient Prude;
Of bold selection and seductive style,
And colour sensuous as Sappho's smile,
They still transcend The Angelus as art
Despite the noisy reclame of the mart:
The Angelus! in which the traders hear
That high-priced, holy bell to Hebrews dear,
Of tintinnabulations that proclaim
The market value of a mystic name.

Tiring of nudes, the master's epic hand
Turned to the peasant of his native land,
And, with a genius searching and supreme,
Struck out a new expression for the theme.
His Peasant is no well-fed smirking clown
Dressed up to catch the fancy of the Town,
But worn with bitter want and grinding toil —
The sad and sombre victim of the soil;
And yet as clothed of dignity and grace,
As charged of classic charm in form and face,
As are the matchless marbles Phidias wrought
Ere Art in Athens died of Ethic thought.