A poet needs a model,
As sure as artist's brush.
We need not pay commission,
For the world will sit for us.
Our tools are simple and they're free-
A knowing heart and sympathy.
Yet these are bought at a dear price-
The pains and sufferings of life.
We paint the lines in a mother's face
Or the twinkling in an eye.
We sketch the history of a race
Or the creed of men who die.
Our easels have no preference
For light or shade or sheen.
Our models need not hold a pose;
We sketch the changing scene.
We write about the ugly;
We write about the fair,
And every time we turn our heads,
We find new subjects there-
The tinkling shades of laughter,
The restful shades of green.
And yet each line will bear a trace
Of everything we've seen.
I wrote it to a picture-
I wrote it to a song.
I wrote it to an old man
I wrote it to a garden-
I wrote it to a leaf.
I wrote it to an anguished cry-
I wrote it to relief.
I wrote it to an artist-
I wrote it to a sage.
And every time I lift my eyes,
There stands another page.
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Comments about this poem (~Brush Strokes by Adeline Foster )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
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