Monday, 18 June 2007

The Young Artist
By Mary Arthur
SHE sat among the whisp'ring woods,
With wild flowers at her feet,
And heard from out the glossy leaves
A murmur soft and sweet;
Yet not the music or the balm
Had stirred the lady's thought-
A spell of deeper, fuller power
Had there its magic wrought.
A vision rose before her, bright
As dreams of hope can be,
And wakened to a new delight
Her fancy bold and free:
A dream of fame and glory,
When years of toil were flown,
When all the weariness was past,
And brightness all her own.
"I will win a radiant future!
It shall glow with colors rare,
And the great and noble of the earth
Shall pour their tributes there.
Oh, is it not a glorious gift,
This living, proud desire,
That gladdens with its brilliancy,
And warms me with its fire.
"No wavering doubt shall hold me
From the point I hope to win;
Nor will I need the world's applause
When satisfied within.
I will pass through all the shadows
That cluster round my way,
And only feel the darkness past
When reigns for me the day."

1 comment:

Cathy Louise said...

You are a beautiful little artist my sweet girl....