The great artist is one whose whole body becomes a living soul;
whose eye gets glimpses into the heart of Nature, with visions of
the Supernatural; whose ear hears their inner music, and whose hand
produces ecstatic expression of their central force in some revelation
of Beauty. And to make his art more real, more nearly perfect, Beauty
more beautiful, such artist by contrast often depicts or suggests the
deadly but doomed discords of life.
Any inspiring touch I have with Nature makes me less than half content
with the best I can say of her. Beyond my increasing love for the rich,
old Mother—yet eternally young and myriad formed—I am deeply indebted
to F. Schuyler Mathews and his charming “Field Book of Wild Birds and
Their Music,” especially in suggestions and some illustrations for the
“Birds’ Orchestra.” Other acknowledgements are made elsewhere in this
little volume of verse, which chances to be my first, and therefore
subject to the severer criticism.