WITHIN a little room
Doth one dear Painter sit,
'Tis fringed with Summer bloom,
And the ivy drops o'er it:
Down doth the ivy drop,
To all the arts akin;
Shy little birds will stop
And slily peep therein.
The clouds are curious!
So is the upper blue;
And the tall tree-tops that laugh at us
Bend their great heads to you.
Of cloud and tree and spray
The faint wall-shadow dances,

Murmurs the summer wind alway,
Envious of your sweet fancies!
Here doth full silence reign
Through all the golden morn,
While dreams flit in and out again
Ere Art's fair child is born.

Out on the far hill-side,
Begirt with curling fern,
Where chasing clouds do ride,
Doth the other Painter learn.
There's neither rock nor tree,
Nor restive mountain-stream,
Cloud-peak nor valley
Cut by a slanting beam;--
There's no flood on the meadow,
There's no bird in the sky,
Nor deep mid-forest shadow,
But fills this Painter's eye.

Perched on a crazy paling,
Deep in a hawthorn hedge,
Or briny air inhaling
Which whirls by ocean edge;--
Wherever Nature calls
Will this brave artist speed,
And I!--whate'er befalls,
Follow like Ganymede!