Wouldst know the artist? Then go seek Him in his labors. Though he strive That Nature’s voice alone should speak From page or canvas to the heart, Yet is it passionately alive With his own soul! Of him ’t is part!— This happy failure, this is Art.
Wouldst know the artist? Then go seek Him in his labors. Though he strive That Nature’s voice alone should speak From page or canvas to the heart, Yet is it passionately alive With his own soul! Of him ’t is part!— This happy failure, this is Art.
O ye who see with other eyes than ours, And speak with tongues we are too deaf to hear, Whose touch we cannot feel yet know ye near, When, with a sense of yet undreamed-of powers, We sudden pierce the cloud of sense that lowers, Enwrapping us as ’t were our spirit’s tomb, And catch some sudden...
I as she FEARED IT WOULD BE HERE in this room where first we met, And where we said farewell with tears, Here, where you swore “Though you forget, My love shall deeper grow with years,” Here, where the pictures on the wall, The very rugs upon the floor, The smallest objects you recall,—...
