When painters leave this world, we grieve <br />For the hand that will work no more, <br />But who can say that they rest alway <br />On that still celestial shore? <br />No! No! they choose from the rainbow hues, <br />And winging from Paradise, <br />They come to paint, now bold now faint, <br />The tones of our sunset skies. <br />When I see them there I can almost swear <br />That grey is from Whistler's brain! <br />That crimson flush was Turner's brush! <br />And the gold is Claude Lorraine.<br /><br />William Percy French<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/celestial-painting-sunset-at-renvyle/