Pebbles and Shells (Hawkes collection)/The Soul of Art
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 essayTo catch the light upon a stream that pouredDown jagged cliffs, where flaming maples towered,And autumn's mantle over the fair earth lay.
Yet one I knew took up the lifeless brushAnd spread the paint with such consummate skill,That one could see the sunlight dance and thrillAlong 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.