In an art gallery,
The tapestry of brush -soaked paper hang,
Judges buzz, with stories sung.
There flashes the red-light -clumsy lore,
Half opened whisper, of hired doors,
Or of an old father with her paralytic-daughter in bed,
or flickering shadows' prey-eyed tigress,
Or snow-wide Himalaya with Vivekananda's tature,
Or Socrates' humor, to poor death's matter.
So many, so many, so many, -the juries conclude,
Art faces the face of ungraspable lute.