Classic Poem

Art, in whatever guise, from " bad" to " best,"
Must face the moving mind's relentless test,
Must face the test of unity, as mind,
And take its place as common or refin'd.

Mind has one standard, and but one alone,
To measure everything of mortals known.
There's not one standard for appraising art,
And one for other tools of Life apart.
Back of expression is the mental play,
The form and colour can but chart the way.

Art comes full circle in its ordered sight,
Sustained and perfect in its lyric flight,
Or fails and falters with the colour-blind —
The troubled eye is but the troubled mind.