Art is a father, of many a child
Some soft and gentle, some strange and some wild.
Loudly they played, music and dance
Painting and drawing, always in a trance
Sculpture and photography, pleasure to the sight
And there by the window, she sat in the light
Her name was poetry; her tongue was spun of gold
And when she stood and spoke,
Her words were always bold.
She always knew when, how and what to say.
Poetry had power, poetry had sway.
All her brothers and sisters, loved to hear her speak,
Her rhymes penned in Latin, her wisdom truly Greek.
With eloquence and grace she could make them smile,
Make them think, make them laugh, even weep for a while.
Poetry knew exactly, how powerful she was,
For even in her silence, she drew their in applause.