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.
Adeline Foster's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (~Brush Strokes by Adeline Foster )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley
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