In words that paint, I hide away;
Hoping armistice to stay;
Immortal craft ‘gainst tempest brewing;
Ever madness quill eschewing.

We write of beauty ‘fore the storm;
Our words they dye the summers warm;
The flowered glade, the meadow golden;
Practice kept from times now olden.

Composing sketch of bronzen harvest;
Gusting flurried fronds of varnish;
Crunching leaves piled in a heap;
In glee upon a child to leap.

Penning muraled winters, whitened;
Tables full and families brightened;
Glow red and gold our jubilee;
To shush the alpine slopes carefree.

Drafted in pasteled rebirth;
With soft-hued words scribe shades the earth;
Meadowed lands where yearlings frolic;
Lord returned, creation aulic.

And when it comes, the storm at last;
We grasp the pen, we hold it fast;
We cry out not, we do not squeal;
Tempera words in calm appeal.

At maelstrom end, did phrase abide?
Did pigment last upon the hide?
And if we find we’ve weathered true;
It’s restoration, we must to do.

Tis all a part of glowing writ;
Reward for those who shun to quit;
Discover they a hue enduring;
Custom letters proved a mooring.

Yes, there are those who dare to write;
And ‘tis with golden shaft they fight;
‘Til old they grow and pass the pen;
To latter plates of novel men.