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Show The Critics. Once a painter wovo a web; Wove, a web of Blowing glory. In nnd out tho colors Hashed: Kin mod and fllclcer'd; rose nnd fell. Like n wond'rous spirit robe In nn eastern fairy story. And tho public looked and spoke, With n wonlth of solemn stricture. "Ho must mean It for a Joke. For It cannot be a picture." Once a poet flung a glow From his pen upon his paper. Sweet scents sprang fiom open buds: Sounds roso high, then dropp'd nnd died: l-'Iames writhed red, like shreds of light On n wind-blown nltnr tnpor. And tho people saw, and said. Ere they'd half peruseil the proem. "Ho must have been off his hend When ho called that thing n poem." Onco n mnstcr wrote n score, Great nnd grand nnd full of wonder. In It was tho Joy of llfo: In It was tho grief of death: Laughter and tho wall of tears: Lightning gleam nnd crash of thunder And tho many headed heard, With a frown of deprecation, As they murmured, "On my word, What n mad conglomeration!" Westminster Gazette, |