A FABLE IN ART
Long years ago, in some forgotten reign,
There lived a limner wedded to his art,
With but one purpose burning in his heart;
That by his brush, the dreamland in his brain
Might find a place in galleries of Spain.
And with this purpose glowing in his heart
Before his easel sat he years apart,
Until at last his strength began to wane.
But with the years a wondrous landscape grew
Beneath his brush, so subtle was its hue
Of crimson clouds, no artist could declare
From whence it came, until one morn they found
The hand grown cold, above his heart a wound
From whence there flowed the crimson rich and rare.
There lived a limner wedded to his art,
With but one purpose burning in his heart;
That by his brush, the dreamland in his brain
Might find a place in galleries of Spain.
And with this purpose glowing in his heart
Before his easel sat he years apart,
Until at last his strength began to wane.
But with the years a wondrous landscape grew
Beneath his brush, so subtle was its hue
Of crimson clouds, no artist could declare
From whence it came, until one morn they found
The hand grown cold, above his heart a wound
From whence there flowed the crimson rich and rare.
SATISFIED
When in this life a soul shall find
That which shall satisfy the heart and mind
In all its craving, doubting, hoping, striving,
Then to that soul is life made worth the living;
And in that hour unto that soul 'tis given,
To know in part the boundless joys of heaven.
That which shall satisfy the heart and mind
In all its craving, doubting, hoping, striving,
Then to that soul is life made worth the living;
And in that hour unto that soul 'tis given,
To know in part the boundless joys of heaven.
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