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When I set my eyes on a beautiful scene,
and the poetic heart in me drives to exhume
some tinkling parallel in a string of words,
some pure synopsis with entrancing line,
some green totality in a blinding verse,
some all-expressive poem – then I am sad,
sad because I cannot climb every hill, scale
every cloud, nor sever every tree and latch it
to my words: should I become a painter, whose
canvas throws into relief the myriad that eludes! –
O impoverished expression! – after such pains!
What can I pass on to posterity that is
of gain? - Friends, everything is a thing of joy
in thanksgiving – the true art of expression.
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