So rapt in contemplation is the soul
Of the true artist he feels not the shock
Of hostile elements. The winds may blow
Tempestuously, the thunder crack and roll,
The rains descend, the tortured earth may rock;
These are not the reality he would know.
The artist like the mystic, finds a whole
World and complete within. They but unlock
The gates, these outbursts of external show,
But over what’s within have small control.
One whose rare art should make all Manxmen proud
When urged to shelter from the heavy rain
Which drenched him did the urgency disdain,
Turned to his friend; said “Hush ! Look at that cloud.”
Weekly Times 5.2.60