In the middle of day when the sun’s at his height
And the wonder of things becomes sharp in his sight,
I arise and look round me and everything see,
As if I am the sun and this all is for me.
Every rock, every hill, every tree and each flower
Come to me where I stand in the height of my power.
And it’s power not o’er men, but in living with love
For the work that I do with no master above.
As a painter and sculptor and maker of song
I bring beauty and pleasure immeasurably strong
To heroic creations that men come to praise
And take back with them joy for the sun of their days.
Yet alone with my canvas, my clay and my bars
There’s an air beyond praise, as in rapture of stars;
It’s a height that keeps calling and pulling me on
To a keener embracement of glorious dawn.
For the soul of the artist is starlight and sun
That envisions a world that is made of this one
And takes real to a cleaner more beautiful place
That leaps out like a runner who wins every race!
All the triumph and wonder and greatness of man
In the splendor of art shows the end he began.
From beginning of being, from hearing and see,
To that thing he calls god, but can only be he.
As it’s art that on man is his soul-gleaming crown,
It must always lift upward and never cast down.
All the twisted and ugly, discordant and foul,
Are the trash of non-artists that speak with a howl.
Look away, close your ears, do not give them a touch,
For their anti-man jeers do not toss them a crutch.
Set the striding heroic to the sun of your gaze
And trade artists who earn it the stars of your praise!
If the world become better and manly men thrive,
It is romantic art which will keep them alive.
All the jabbings of paint and the forms of mad mold
Will be lost under mountains of majesty’s gold!
Then the painter and sculptor and the maker of song
Will be out trail-blazing with vision so strong
Every rock, every hill, every flower and tree,
Will stand up competing for artists to see!