|NOTHING poetic in our art,
Where nature is revealed to man;
Where things are seen in every part,
And we their purpose understand!
Dissect each nerve and tiny vein,
Uplift each muscle from its sheath,
Trace every artery to its end,
And weave with them a poet's wreath.
All through the realm of nature wend,
Where science long has walked before
And with her brush at every bend,
Made beautiful her valued store.
Turning from out the world apart,
Answer unto the themes you know;
And say, if true, we have an art
Where poets seldom need to go.
A godly cause, a poet's dream,
Our healing art to suffering;
Each thought is but the lofty theme,
Of poets soaring high on wing.
The realms of nature have we trod,
We tread in footsteps long been made
Within the paths of nature's God,
High up in truth we onward wade.
__James A. DeMoss
James A. DeMoss
(Thayer, Kansas: ___. 1892)