Pebbles and Shells (Hawkes collection)/The Soul of Art
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THE SOUL OF ART
A strange uncertain mass the colors lay,
In wild profusion on the pallette board,
And who would guess that in that mass was stored
The matchless glory of an autumn day,
Or who would dream that mortal would essay
To catch the light upon a stream that poured
Down jagged cliffs, where flaming maples towered,
And autumn's mantle over the fair earth lay.
In wild profusion on the pallette board,
And who would guess that in that mass was stored
The matchless glory of an autumn day,
Or who would dream that mortal would essay
To catch the light upon a stream that poured
Down jagged cliffs, where flaming maples towered,
And autumn's mantle over the fair earth lay.
Yet one I knew took up the lifeless brush
And spread the paint with such consummate skill,
That one could see the sunlight dance and thrill
Along the leaves and hear the torrents rush.
It was not that the sight could understand,
It was the soul that moved the artist's hand.
And spread the paint with such consummate skill,
That one could see the sunlight dance and thrill
Along the leaves and hear the torrents rush.
It was not that the sight could understand,
It was the soul that moved the artist's hand.