I’ve sometimes heard, not without surprise,
That discarding artificial beauty is deemed wise;
Instead it is Nature who’s admired
Though it leaves so much to be desired-
T’is naught but the work of chance in guise
~
Every beauteous bird, every comely foliage,
Feign dazzles brighter than any stage
But when I lift up Isis’s veil:
Just another being striving to prevail
Desperately reaching for the next age
~
Every jagged rock, every mountainous crown:
Merely pressure vented, an accidental down;
The senses they do often delight
But when illumed by a slightly different light
The spectator may change his awed gaze to a frown
~
But the painter, to whom the vision’s lent
As he applies the brush, so slightly bent;
Creates something loftier with his plate:
For even if he were but to emulate
His every stroke holds full intent