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169
ART.
Art is medicinal. If I am long
Without the exercise of poesie,
My spirit ails, my body's somewhat wrong,
My heart beats “Woe is me!”
Without the exercise of poesie,
My spirit ails, my body's somewhat wrong,
My heart beats “Woe is me!”
And if the rhythmic measure is my choice,
'Tis also my necessity. I weave
The threaded thought: it makes no laurell'd noise;
But all my ailments leave.
'Tis also my necessity. I weave
The threaded thought: it makes no laurell'd noise;
But all my ailments leave.
And so, I doubt not, his creation makes
A healthier current in the Painter's veins:
Or that his marble inspiration takes
Away the Sculptor's pains.
A healthier current in the Painter's veins:
Or that his marble inspiration takes
Away the Sculptor's pains.
And music, that usurps a sweet control
In any heart through which its marvel floats,
Is physic to the body and the soul
Of him that builds the notes.
In any heart through which its marvel floats,
Is physic to the body and the soul
Of him that builds the notes.
The spirit craves to do its noblest thing.
It is a poison in the blood, supprest.
And thus the Arts are medicines that bring
Healing, and joy, and rest.
It is a poison in the blood, supprest.
And thus the Arts are medicines that bring
Healing, and joy, and rest.
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