From Pen and Brush

At times, the mind speaks forth its pleasure
And clothes its thoughts in pigment or in rhyme.
The artist leaves the world her painted treasure,
Fair sculpture, music and her songs divine.

Yet, humble minds, like mine, must find expression.
Though crude and full of flaw the effort be;
It lifts us from a plane of deep depression
To higher levels; whence, beyond, new goals we see.

So, though no eye may read these piteous phrases
And no one ever note the colors fade;
And though they never meet with hopeful praises,
Still, in my own heart, I am well repaid.