I <br /> <br />The arts are old, old as the stones <br />From which man carved the sphinx austere. <br />Deep are the days the old arts bring: <br />Ten thousand years of yesteryear. <br /> <br /> <br />II <br /> <br />She is madonna in an art <br />As wild and young as her sweet eyes: <br />A frail dew flower from this hot lamp <br />That is today's divine surprise. <br /> <br />Despite raw lights and gloating mobs <br />She is not seared: a picture still: <br />Rare silk the fine director's hand <br />May weave for magic if he will. <br /> <br />When ancient films have crumbled like <br />Papyrus rolls of Egypt's day, <br />Let the dust speak: "Her pride was high, <br />All but the artist hid away: <br /> <br />"Kin to the myriad artist clan <br />Since time began, whose work is dear." <br />The deep new ages come with her, <br />Tomorrow's years of yesteryear.<br /><br />Vachel Lindsay<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mae-marsh-motion-picture-actress/
