I love this ocean-picture's pale reserve:
No tints unnatural of purpling grain,
Azure or opal, mar the rough, grey main.
The sweep, the swing, the long froth-churning curve.
The shore-ward working and confusèd swerve
Of yellowing water: white blooms wear such stain.
All dashed and muddied with the April rain.
No poor ambition did the painter serve!
Well that no laboured ship or sun-burst broke
The strong monotony of that sky and surge;
Leave, only leave, the line of stormy smoke,
The sea-birds dashed upon the nearer verge, —
Brave in its truth, this ocean-piece shall be
The type for us of Homer's harvestless sea.
Not only this — lesson of more than art!
Who dares, strong in simplicity, despise
The evanescent beauties that arise
Before his gaze, and in true thought apart.
Look on straight forward to life's very heart;
Who dares, by gift supernal rendered wise,
Deem truth more beautiful for all true eyes
Than garish things made merely for the mart:
Whether he paint, or write, or live his thought,
To that which he produces shall be lent
An immortality of ravishment.
One day it shall be own'd divinely wrought;
And all the sternness of its strength shall be
Like the grave beauty of this pictured sea.
