Art needs thee, gentle lady. Where dost thou Yet tarry? Art is weeping through the night, And though above his head the stars are bright, He needs thy hand to wreathe them round his brow. The sonnets wave white wings and to thee call: Imagination's hand is on the plough: Fancies arise like wreaths of mist and fall: Blossoms of thought before the soft breeze bow. But where dost thou abide, O soul of Art? What songs are soothing now thy world-worn heart? Pale Art is dying, lady, for thy kiss: Oh, wilt not thou arise and save by this? Sad Art is perishing for lack of thee; Oh, heal sad Art,—and doing so, save me! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BUCOLIC COMEDY: THE FOX; FOR ANN PEARN by EDITH SITWELL A BIRTHDAY by LOUIS UNTERMEYER TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT LATE LEAVES by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR AFTER THE WAR by RICHARD THOMAS LE GALLIENNE ROBINSON CRUSOE by MOTHER GOOSE |