 | The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder |  |
THE OLD MASTER
Of his dear Lord he painted all the life,But not that ancient land, nor the old days;
Not curious he to seek, through learnèd strife,
The look of those far times and unknown ways.
But in his solemn and long-living art
Well did he paint that which can never die:
The life and passion of the human heart,
Unchanged while sorrowing age on age goes by.
Beneath his brush his own loved people grew,
Their rivers and their mountains, saints and lords;
The dark Italian mothers whom he knew,
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And the young Savior, throned at Mary's breast,
Was but some little child whom he loved best.
| The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder | |