Many a year has fled away
…Since this old palette was new,
As may be seen by the spots of green
…And yellow and red and blue.
Many a picture was painted from this,
…While many were only dreamed;
And shadow and light like the black and white
…Across my life have streamed.
Accept, my friend, this plain old board
…All plastered and imbrowned,
Where the pleasure and strife of a painter’s life
…Have left a mosaic ground.
The color that went to the picture’s soul
…Has left but its body behind;
Yet strive to trace on its cloudy face
…Some gleam of the artist’s mind.
And think of the friend upon whose thumb
…This brown old tablet hung,
And the baffled aim, where visions came
…Unpainted and unsung.
Mine be the records all obscure
…Upon the surface blent;
Be yours the love that seeks to prove
…My deed by my intent.
The Bard on the Hill 