Envy the young artist: all the bright worlds are his–

Their colors and forms, their laughter and their fruit–

Are his, all his, to handle and transmute.

And, being human, he–like other blokes–

Cherishes women, sunlight, beer and jokes.

Love the young artist: through his agency

The lonely find their kin; the cold grow kind.

He is an ear for the deaf, an eye for the blind.

His touch is the soul of courage, and by his powers

Death too shall die . . . and all the bright worlds be ours.