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...

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...