A Painter

He knows the ancient, pensive race of dry
And flinty Breton soil—unvaried plain
Of rose and gray, where yew and ivy reign
O'er crumbling manors which beneath them lie.

From wind-swept slopes of writhing beech his eye
Has joyed to see mid autumn's boisterous train
The red sun sink beneath the foamy main,
His lips all salt with spray from reefs dashed high.

He paints the ocean, splendorous, vast and sad,
With cloud in amethystine beauty clad,
In frothy emerald and calm sapphire;

He fixes fast the things which else would fly,
And on his narrow canvas makes respire,
In the sand's mirror, the occidental sky.