Page 38 - Contrast1958Winterv2n1

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L'ESTHETE

I can love him, though I have not ever seen him. d. uise
The record is old and scratched, but this does not ISg
The beauty of his voice.
The machine is feeble and tired
With many windings and unwindings,
But still I can hear his voice
And love him for the beauty of it.

And the painting!

How nimble were the artist's fingers
Which blended in those blues and greys
With such tender care that one would think
In the back of his mind he must have held
The image of some blue-grey eyes he once beheld
And once had loved,

And tried to bring their essence back before him
In the clear bright sky of that painting.

I con love him too, blue or brown,
Although I'll never know whether his eyes were grey or

Or whether he Was old or young-

I can love him because I love his painting,
And because he loved something enough
To paint.

The poem too is lovely and pure;
Its rhythm strikes a fever in my blood,

And my skin tingles as life is thrust at me
In the beautiful livingness of its words.
And even without its meaning
I would love the poem,

Because it is full of earth-sounds.

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