As if placed there by the artist's hand,

along the edge, a curve of dirt-kissed sand,

so much more than feeble attempts by man to grow,

torn from a childhood's wonder yet now they know

When aged eyes gaze upon mountains to touch a swollen cloud,

wrapped close in mist leaving heavy-winged birds to flap around,

so that words are taken with nature's beauty unbound,

and far-off worlds live once more in such fertile ground

Lakes of bluest blues so simple to heaven's bliss fulfil,

and even to angels seen, such sights still thrill,

for wonder gathers trees and souls both to embrace,

the blessed reverie of an artist's gentle grace.