The Artist

Among the frigid, icy hills,

Past frozen falls and crystal rills,

In cavern hidden from the eye

Of any trav’ler passing by,

There, kept behind dark walls of earth,

In mind of artist springs new birth.


Surrounded by rich colors gay,

Ensconced in gilded curtains, framed

In ebony and sandalwood

Behold! fair works that long have stood,

And guarded now, lie ‘neath the stone

Protected in their safest home.


The artist dwells among his dreams,

And paints with zeal such beauteous things;

As blizzard cries and sends its snow

And in the mountains no man goes,

Yet painter’s mind springs lively forth,

Creating treasures of great worth.


In future days, when Time is old,

Forgotten tales no minds now hold,

And weary is the mortal race,

Meand’ring on from place to place,

The artist’s tales in color stay

And teach to hope for noble days.

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