of the Old Masters
by Donna Flood
Impressionists lived removed
from the scene,
Styles new and never before seen,
And it is often the way of the artist,
Going to a place where his heart is.
Call them names you might,
Of snobs, recluse, any slight,
Might they hear,
But don't fear,
It won't change
That burning need,
To work at a new seed.
Some like Degas were different,
>From the regular apparent
Style part of old,
Style part of bold.
Take it to see,
Take it, it's free.
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