Two canvasses lean upon my easel.

            On one my strokes are sharp and clear-


            Each object emerges in color and line

            By the form that is within my dreaming eye.



            In each stroke the object comes to life and lives.


The other refuses to emerge.



            It will not take shape because it has no rigid

            Form within my dreaming eye.

                        Feelings are there-

                        Emotions are real-

            Like a nymph floating in gossamer on a moonlit beach

            It slips by each thought's reach.


            There exists within my mind a portrait to be painted

            But my canvas is only a blur.