Verse > Anthologies > Hunt and Lee, eds. > The Book of the Sonnet
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Hunt and Lee, comps.  The Book of the Sonnet.  1867.
 
VI. To Jervis McEntee, Artist
By Richard Henry Stoddard (1825–1903)
 
JERVIS, my friend, I envy you the art
  Which you profess, and which possesses you,
  To mimic Nature; unto her so true,
Your pictures are what she is to the heart,
The mystery of which it is a part,        5
  That gladdens when we crush the vernal dew,
  And saddens when leaves fall, and flowers are few;
Nor quite forsakes us in the noisy mart
Whence she is banished, save in slips of sky
  That swim in mist, or drip in dreary rain,        10
No glimpse of peaks far off, nor forests nigh,
  Only dark streets, strange forms, a barren pain;
Till to my wall I turn a longing eye,
  When you restore me mountains, woods again!
 
 
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