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When the curtains of Night are withdrawn.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!