Prototypes, by Madison Cawein

  Whether it be that we in letters trace
  The pure exactness of a wood bird's strain,
  And name it song; or with the brush attain
  The high perfection of a wildflower's face;
  Or mold in difficult marble all the grace
  We know as man; or from the wind and rain
  Catch elemental rapture of refrain
  And mark in music to due time and place:
  The aim of Art is Nature; to unfold
  Her truth and beauty to the souls of men
  In close suggestions; in whose forms is cast
  Nothing so new but 'tis long eons old;
  Nothing so old but 'tis as young as when
  The mind conceived it in the ages past.