By his evening fire the artist <br />Pondered o'er his secret shame; <br />Baffled, weary, and disheartened, <br />Still he mused, and dreamed of fame. <br /> <br />'T was an image of the Virgin <br />That had tasked his utmost skill; <br />But, alas! his fair ideal <br />Vanished and escaped him still. <br /> <br />From a distant Eastern island <br />Had the precious wood been brought <br />Day and night the anxious master <br />At his toil untiring wrought; <br /> <br />Till, discouraged and desponding, <br />Sat he now in shadows deep, <br />And the day's humiliation <br />Found oblivion in sleep. <br /> <br />Then a voice cried, 'Rise, O master! <br />From the burning brand of oak <br />Shape the thought that stirs within thee!' <br />And the startled artist woke,-- <br /> <br />Woke, and from the smoking embers <br />Seized and quenched the glowing wood; <br />And therefrom he carved an image, <br />And he saw that it was good. <br /> <br />O thou sculptor, painter, poet! <br />Take this lesson to thy heart: <br />That is best which lieth nearest; <br />Shape from that thy work of art.<br /><br />Henry Wadsworth Longfellow<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/by-the-fireside-gaspar-becerra/
