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Poem	In youth I longed to paint The loveliness I saw; And yet by dire constraint I had to study Law. But now all that is past, And I have no regret, For I am free at last Law to forget. To beauty newly born With brush and tube I play; And though my daubs you scorn, I'll learn to paint some day. When I am eighty old, Maybe I'll better them, And you may yet behold A gem. Old Renoir used to paint, Brush strapped to palsied hand; His fervour of a saint How I can understand. My joy is my reward, And though you gently smile, Grant me to fumble, Lord, A little while!
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