Poems (Merrill)/The Poet to the Artist

by Clara A. Merrill

THE POET TO THE ARTIST

(To E. A. M.)

You painted a beautiful picture And sent it a gift to me; So I will write you a poem,—But what shall the poem be?     Your picture, like beautiful sunset     So brilliant, will ever be praised,—    But my poem will be like a cipher     That some rude, reckless hand has erased!

Your picture seemed "Tidings of Gladness," —As the beautiful rainbow will cast Its bright, glowing tints on the billows Of clouds when the tempest is past.     Like the unbounded depth of the Ocean     Is the gratitude felt.—for your gift     Was like rending dark storm-clouds asunder     "When a sunbeam shines bright thro' the rift.

Your picture was eagerly welcomed, —As the first rosy tints of the dawn Are welcomed by vigilant watchers When the curtains of Night are withdrawn.     —As the rose hails the dew of the evening     When parched by the heat of the sun;     —As the hand, that with toil has grown weary     Welcomes rest when the day's work is done—

—So thus, for your picture a welcome Most fervent will e'er be secure But my poem—Ah! what of my poem? —There can scarcely be aught to endure.     Tho' your picture's like beauteous landscape     That by Artists will ever be praised;     —Yet my poem will be like a cipher     That some rude, reckless hand has erased!