With living words he plied his art Upon the canvas of the heart. Each picture wrought with wondrous care, One by one he sketched them there; And as the paintings grew apace What mattered to us time or space? Gone the daily grind and rush Beneath the magic of his brush. A touch -- a stroke -- he caught a mood In colors we had never viewed. A few deft lines -- a landscape clear; A portrait with a hidden tear. That selfsame brush for our rapt sake Left merry laughter in its wake. His voice a golden frame for all, As now they "hang on mem'ry's wall". So made he with his artist power Enchanted years from one brief hour. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE EARLY MORNING by HILAIRE BELLOC UNDERNEATH THE BOUGH by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS ON THE DEATH OF A DAUGHTER by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM THE MOTHER'S LAMENT by BERNARD BARTON AN INSCRIPTION by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT TO LABOR by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE WHERE'S AGNES? by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |