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A sonnet on our ideas about artistic ability.
Grown red and orange in the browning light
And for the summer warmth the artist grieves
And shudders at the thought of winter’s bright
Unflinching gaze that picks out each mistake
Made from haste, ignorance, or poor skill.
When autumn comes, he wishes to remake
Each once proud object in his new found will
Where knowledge, drive, and talent all converge.
But despite this the artist cannot see
The frightening implications of the urge
To delve both deep and well. It may just be
The focus on precocity does lie
Our sweetest fruits we drop just as we die.