The Painter

I do so admire the ones who can render
The spirit of splendor in paint
The simple untouchable beauty so tender
So lovingly shown, with restraint

As I lazily lie in my rumpled old bed
The window’s all beaded with rain
And the thin thorny branches beside the old shed
Wildly dance in the wind’s mad refrain

From the dark House of Usher, or from Wuthering Heights
The scene seems to spring to my mind
A flight of pure fancy, but full of delights,
For the needfully searching to find.

Of Poe’s Midnight Dreary, this First of December,
I think, as my day dims to night
And, in snatches, those books I shall always remember
Each time that I turn out the light

Oh, I wish, how I wish, I could ever express
The wistfulness found in the thunder
and paint a great canvas, and leave them to guess
What nature of Spell I was under!

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