Until they long for wings

To fly from dull monotony,

Which carries in its train

That wreck of thought—Despondency—

Which preys on heart and brain.

The artist knows the colors best

That blend in harmony

With richest cloud-scenes, in the west,

That gild the sunset sky;

The minstrel knows what song to sing

To please the multitude;

His fingers deftly touch the strings

That yield response subdued

When weary soul would find relief

From sorrow's withering sigh,

Or when the heart is bowed with grief,

And tear-drops dew the eye;

But when the soul is full of joy,

How jubilant the strain

The tactful artist will employ

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