Classic Poem

What of the splendid Monet's merry men
Who focus all the sunshine in their ken,
And muster in these halls with pigment coarse,
Devoid of many things but not of force?

Convention is to seek, and, strange to say,
No culmination crowns their shining way.
They " hold the mirror up to Nature's face,"
But hold it up, at times, too close for grace.
There lurks an ideal here, and one sublime,
The labour pains will sink to rest in time.