Bound by beauty nowhere found
But on the artist’s birthing ground,
Lit by sharpish sight full smit
With spark of thought that lives for it,
Held, now, by its strength’ning spell,
Sees he canvas asking, bare,
Sees his leading vision there
Sunless yet, a question spun,
Sleeping in his hand that leaps,
Eager for his dream to be
Realer than reality,
Palms the fire, steady, calm,
Forces passion to his course
Pent, unshaking—flame down-bent—
And, with brush-extended hand,
Plants his answer on the land!
Paint for him is his high saint,
Medium-flower of bravest deed.
Each deft touch is his to teach,
Following his mind’s beseech.
He the sower, leader, he,
Hero of his master-sphere,
Where, when after cautious care
His wrought field is perfect bliss,
Room of art a world will bloom,
Making day with endless “Yea!”
Thing accomplished, captured, won,
Thing ideal, riv’ling sun,
Land of joy from mind and hand
Stands supreme where artist stands!
Come with eyes that seek the sun,
See what he the master ‘s done!