All silent and magnificent
I fancied I could see
The Master Artist
touching up some solitary tree,
But the glory of the landscape
was a flash of crimson flame
At the bottom of the picture
where the painter signs his name.
Now I cannot speak the language
of the men who paint and draw,
And with technical precision
can’t describe the scene I saw.
All I know is that a picture
was unrolled for me to see,
And the highlights and the shadows
seemed just what they ought to be.
But the gorgeous burst of color
in the foreground caught my eye,
And I knew it made the landscape,
though I couldn’t say just why.
It struck me as peculiar,
where an earthly painter signs,
The Master Artist splashed His name
in tangled shrubs and vines.
And as I stepped up closer
I discovered and was glad
He had given that touch of splendor
to the poorest stuff He had.
To the common things in summer
which man scarcely sees at all
He had given the place of honor
and the glory of the fall.
-- Edgar A. Guest
