You  see,  I've  not  the  art  you  scholars  learn
To  find  the  very  word  for  every  turn


MARY  QUAYLE  623

Of  what  you  think,  and  feel  within  your  heart,

Immediately — ah,  sir  I  that  is  an  art  1

But  this  is  it — you'll  see  it  at  a  glaiice —

The  man  that  paints  a  picture  has  a  chance

To  make  it  what  he  likes — he'll  paint  the  trees.
He'll  paint  a  baby  on  its  mother's  knees.
He  paints  the  things  that  give  him  most  delight.
He  paints  the  things  he  longs  for  in  the  night,

And  things  that  never  were,  and  never  could  be,

He  paints  them  up  to  what  he  thinks  they  should  be —

What's  this  you  call — imagination,  ain't  it  ?

Why,  every  yearning  of  his  heart,  he'll  paint  it.
He'll  paint  the  very  life,  and  make  it  start  out

Straight  in  your  face — ^the  man  can  paint  his  heart  out.
He's  safe  enough ;  and  yet  he  needn't  brag —

It's  all  between  him  and  a  canvas  rag.
"  And  so  you  gentlemen  that  write  the  po'ms
And  stories,  living  in  your  pleasant  homes —
You're  not  content  with  just  the  things  you  see
Around  you,  common  joy  and  misery.
And  life  and  death.     You  set  yoursdves  to  listen
To  all  the  hearts  that  beat ;  all  eyes  that  glisten.
No  matter  where,  you  watch,  you  watch  the  faces  ;
You  write  as  if  you  lived  in  fearful  places.
So  that,  at  times,  your  best  friends  wouldn't  swear
You  are  the  steady  gentlemen  you  are.
