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The artist looks down on his canvass, And smothers a heart-weary sigh, And he sees not the beautiful picture That glows with the hues of the sky. For a picture that cannot be painted Burns into the artist's brain, And he weeps as he sits at his easel, And sobs through his sorrow, "In vain." The poet reads over his poem, The thoughts of a Heaven-lent soul-- And sweet as the ripple of waters The beautiful sentences roll. But a poem that cannot be written, Burns into the poet's brain, And he weeps in a passion of anguish, And sobs through his sorrow, "In vain." The musician sits at his organ, And the air echoes sweet melodies. But his heart cries for sounds that are better Than the sounds that he draws from the keys. For a chord that has never been sounded--- A passionate,---ecstatic strain. And he weeps as he sits at the organ, And sobs through his sorrow, "In vain." Oh Artist, Musician and Poet! Three souls that were lent to the earth To brighten with fingers of beauty This bare, barren planet of dearth! You dream of the glories of Heaven, And vainly are striving to show To the gaze of the clay-fettered mortals, The things that no mortal shall know.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox's other poems:
Poems of another poets with the same name (Стихотворения других поэтов с таким же названием):
Количество обращений к стихотворению: 980
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