There's a beautiful Artist abroad in the world,
And her pencil is dipped in heaven,--
The gorgeous hues of Italian skies,
The radiant sunset's richest dyes,
The light of Aurora's laughing eyes,
Are each to her pictures given.
As I walked abroad yestere'en, what time
The sunset was fairest to see,
I saw where her wonderful brush had been
Over a maple tree--half of it green--
And the fairiest col'ring that ever was seen
She had left on that maple tree.
There was red of every possible hue,
There was yellow of every dye,
From the faintest straw-tint to orange bright,
Fluttering, waving, flashing in light,
With the delicate, green leaves still in sight,
Peeping out at the sunset sky.
She had touched the beech, and the scraggy thing.
In a bright new suit was dressed;
Very queer, indeed, it looked to me,
The sober old beech tree thus to see,
So different from what he used to be,
Rigged out in a holiday vest.
Red, and russet, and green, and grey--
He had little indeed of gold--
For the beech was never known to be gay,
Being noted a very grave tree alway,
Never flaunting out in a fanciful way
Like other trees, we are told.
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