When painters leave this world, we grieve 
For the hand that will work no more, 
But who can say that they rest alway 
On that still celestial shore? 
No! No! they choose from the rainbow hues, 
And winging from Paradise, 
They come to paint, now bold now faint, 
The tones of our sunset skies. 
When I see them there I can almost swear 
That grey is from Whistler's brain! 
That crimson flush was Turner's brush! 
And the gold is Claude Lorraine.