Paint

The lamp that holds the flame that lights the artist on his seat
It does peep.
It does peep.

The eyes that guide the hand that holds the brush up to the sheet
They do weep.
They do weep.

The dreams that fill the heart of the poor painter half-asleep
They do fleet.
They do fleet.

The brushes in the colours in the paint-pots by his seat
He doth steep
He doth steep.

The oils into the canvas on the easel by that seat
They do seep.
They do seep.

The hand that holds the brush that paints the faces on the sheet
It does creep.
It does creep.

From the darkness that is yawning comes the sombre light of morning
It is sweet!
It is sweet!

For the painting that is finished of the people he did meet
Does entreat.
Does entreat.

When the halo of that artist who did paint upon the sheet
Turns a wreath.
Turns a wreath.

And the body and the brushes and the easel they do seep
To the deep.
To the deep.

Then the laurels of the people that are gathered at his feet
They will heap.
They will heap.

And a path will all those people to his painted faces beat
There to greet.
There to greet.

While the bodies of those people like a field full of wheat
Earth does reap.
Earth does reap.

The paintings God does keep
He does keep.
He does keep.