 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
477
PROTOTYPES
Whether it be that we in letters traceThe pure exactness of a woodbird'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 't is long eons old;
Nothing so old but 't is as young as when
The mind conceived it in the ages past.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |