23.07.2007, 10:43
Take you my brushes, child of light, and lay
Your colors on the canvas as you choose:--
Paint me the soft glow of this crystal day;
My harder touch would grasp them but to lose
The rose-hung veils, the liquid golden flood,--
I who with palette-knife must pry and strain
To wrench from attitude, face, figure, mood,
A living soul and limn its riddle plain.
What need you teachings of my labored art?
The brush will serve your April winsomeness.
Yet . . . rather lay your head upon my heart--
Draw me to you in a supreme caress,--
That one day, as I paint some throat or hair,
Spring's whole delight bloom like a marvel there!
Your colors on the canvas as you choose:--
Paint me the soft glow of this crystal day;
My harder touch would grasp them but to lose
The rose-hung veils, the liquid golden flood,--
I who with palette-knife must pry and strain
To wrench from attitude, face, figure, mood,
A living soul and limn its riddle plain.
What need you teachings of my labored art?
The brush will serve your April winsomeness.
Yet . . . rather lay your head upon my heart--
Draw me to you in a supreme caress,--
That one day, as I paint some throat or hair,
Spring's whole delight bloom like a marvel there!