On the whole, I don't like rhyming essays; but I grow pontifical in my age, and so here it is.
For sparks of joy to which our hearts have hold, Like fireflies which the flows of time ignore, And soon forgot, the moment we are cold, The artist said, "Of this, I shall know more." For vast unkindness which shall often come, For not of justice is life's vessel full, Which those afflicted would of it be numb, The artist said, "I'll wear this on my soul." For all the dreams of what the world might be, The flowers of hope and industry we sow, And little know what sun or snow they'll see, The artist said, "This garden shall I grow." The beauty, and the burden, artists bear, Is that, for all of life, their hearts must care.
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