The Artist

An artist is a faithless bird,

You can’t depend upon his word.

He says he’ll come around to sketch

And you sit waiting for the wretch;

You wait and wait, and wait some more

Till you are green and blue and sore,

And then you wait another spell

And think some thoughts you wouldn’t tell.

You watch the clouds roll overhead,

You see the western skies turn red;

You see the purple shadows fall

Behind the marsh-grass rank and tall,

You see the daylight gone to pot,

And still the artist cometh not.

And Oh, how sad the day, alack!

Drear wasted hours that ne’er come back.

Perchance a work of art, a gem

Lost from the Future’s diadem,

And all because an artist wretch

Forgets to come around to sketch.

Beware; he is a faithless bird –

You can’t depend upon his word.

July 17, 1915

                                                 

                                                                                                              May, 1915