Whether it be that we in letters trace
The pure exactness of a wood bird's strain,
And name it song; or with the brush attain
The high perfection of a wildflower's face;
Or mold in difficult marble all the grace
We know as man; or from the wind and rain
Catch elemental rapture of refrain
And mark in music to due time and place:
The aim of Art is Nature; to unfold
Her truth and beauty to the souls of men
In close suggestions; in whose forms is cast
Nothing so new but 'tis long eons old;
Nothing so old but 'tis as young as when
The mind conceived it in the ages past.
Prototypes
Madison Julius Cawein
(1)
Poem topics: beauty, music, nature, rain, song, time, truth, wind, bird, rapture, young, long, perfection, place, face, mind, pure, difficult, high, mold, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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