Portrait Gallery

Modern Art

Vol. 3, no. 1, Winter 1895, Page 21.



He loved the hand that drew the perfect line,
   The eye that caught true color and could give
To pigments a creator's light divine,
   Baffling and fugitive.

The silent harmonies a canvas bore
   Were sweet to him, as music may be sweet;
Or dear, as a great epic's mighty roar,
   To lips that oft repeat.

His life was noble, as a life must be
   To range above the paths of slaves or kings;
He held in trust for art a treasury
   Filled with all lovely things.

He was no dreamer, yet amid life&apo;s haste
   Dared follow where the high ideals led;
His largess made the wide world less a waste,
   Art's path less hard to tread.

From some deep woodland where the chill winds sing,
   Through thinning boughs, their plaintive Autumn hymn
Gather a mighty oak's broad leaves, and bring
   A wreath in praise of him.

Meredith Nicholson

November, 1894

William T Walters: Obiit 22 November MDCCCXCIV by Nicholson, Meredith in Modern Art, Vol 3, No. 1, Winter 1895, Page 21. Open access at Jstor. PDF, local.

This poem also appeared in:
“Modern Art” From Boston, Indianapolis News,Indianapolis, Marion County, 6 August 1895.