Art

I wait for thee at the outer gate,

My love, mine only;

Wherefore tarriest thou so late

While I am lonely.

Thou shalt seek my side with a footstep swift,

In thee implanted

Is the love of Art and the greatest gift

That God has granted.

And the world's concerns with its rights and wrongs

Shall seem but small things —

Poet or painter, a singer of songs,

Thine art is all things.

For the wine of life is a woman's love

To keep beside thee;

But the love of Art is a thing above —

A star to guide thee.

As the years go by with thy love of Art

All undiminished,

Thou shalt end thy days with a quiet heart —

Thy work is finished.

So the painter fashions a picture strong

That fadeth never,

And the singer singeth a wond'rous song

That lives for ever.