When painters leave this world, we grieve
For the hand that will work no more,
But who can say that they rest alway
On that still celestial shore?
No! No! they choose from the rainbow hues,
And winging from Paradise,
They come to paint, now bold now faint,
The tones of our sunset skies.
When I see them there I can almost swear
That grey is from Whistler’s brain!
That crimson flush was Turner’s brush!
And the gold is Claude Lorraine.
(William Percy French)
More Poetry from William Percy French:
William Percy French Poems based on Topics: Mind, Gold, World, Brain- Abdul Abulbul Amir (William Percy French Poems)
- Andy McElroe (William Percy French Poems)
- Are Ye Right, There, Michael? (William Percy French Poems)
- The Mountains of Mourne (William Percy French Poems)
- To the West (William Percy French Poems)
- Gortnamona (William Percy French Poems)
Readers Who Like This Poem Also Like:
Based on Topics: World Poems, Mind Poems, Gold Poems, Brain PoemsBased on Keywords: lorraine, claude, whistler
- The Wild Knight (Gilbert Keith Chesterton Poems)
- Mogg Megone - Part I. (John Greenleaf Whittier Poems)
- A Story Of Plantagenet (Nora Pembroke Poems)
- Alma; or, The Progress of the Mind. In Three Cantos. - Canto I. (Matthew Prior Poems)
- Birdofredum Sawin; Esq., To Mr. Hosea Biglow (2) (James Russell Lowell Poems)