For the most part the eye's a camera,
no poetry done, images admitted
in no respect of what one would prefer;
yet, sometimes, in its sweep a brush is fitted
with tints of meaning, shades of truth endowed,
of such fineness that image turns to art,
and makes it seem our talent, from the crowd
into a private person, I, apart.
Such times are rare, and when they do occur,
as when the trees or evening sky self-portraits
of our own beauty style, we raise demur,
and claim it is the sign, at best, of traits
divine, and shy our eyes away from this
self-knowledge, and of eyes make cameras.
