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Poem by Madison Julius Cawein


 Whether it be that we in letters trace
 The pure exactness of a wood bird's strain,
 And name it song; or with the brush attain
 The high perfection of a wildflower's face;
 Or mold in difficult marble all the grace
 We know as man; or from the wind and rain
 Catch elemental rapture of refrain
 And mark in music to due time and place:
 The aim of Art is Nature; to unfold
 Her truth and beauty to the souls of men
 In close suggestions; in whose forms is cast
 Nothing so new but 'tis long eons old;
 Nothing so old but 'tis as young as when
 The mind conceived it in the ages past.

Madison Julius Cawein

Madison Julius Cawein's other poems:
  1. The Wood God
  2. Poe
  3. Dogtown
  4. Love's Calendar
  5. Fall

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