The Gallery Cordair

All the lovers of beauty in art,
That is joy to each true-to-self heart,
Come with lips that are trembling to praise
Every painting and sculpture ablaze.
For ablaze they are truly with fire,
Not of sparks, but of something much higher,
Of the passion for catch-of-ideal,
Of perfection hard sought and made real,
Of devotion to life and self-love,
And to judgement no judge is above,
Independent, self-leading, alone,
In each structure and color and tone,
In the thing in itself a great flame
Of the singular soul and its aim!

Here’s a dancer who flies upon air;
Here’s a face that is fairer than fair;
Here’s a woman held up to the sky
On a roof that is wond’rously high;
Here is fruit and a bowl that have soul;
Here is pride in a boy with a goal;
Here are lovers who touch, face to face,
In a world that is wholly their place;
Here are things that caress and that bless
The strong hero of self-happiness.
Here, creation of Eden is done
And the tasters of greatness have won!

And the lips of the lovers of art
Flare open, are spreading apart,
And the praise is an “Oh!” that’s unheard,
Like the sun-clasping wings of a bird,
And the eyes of these lovers are bright
With the tears that are glory in flight,
And the gallery known as Cordair
Is the house of a worship most rare!

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