PROTOTYPES

Whether it be that we in letters trace

The pure exactness of a wood bird's strain,

And name it song; or with the brush attain

The high perfection of a wildflower's face;

Or mold in difficult marble all the grace

We know as man; or from the wind and rain

Catch elemental rapture of refrain

And mark in music to due time and place:

The aim of Art is Nature; to unfold

Her truth and beauty to the souls of men

In close suggestions; in whose forms is cast

Nothing so new but‘ tis long eons old;

Nothing so old but‘ tis as young as when

The mind conceived it in the ages past.