Boom! Boom! The sun is getting clear above the treetops.
It is growing hot.
The flowers droop.
The birds are silent.
We can see too much now--there is nothing in it. Art is a matter of
soul. Things you see and know all about are not worth painting--only
the intangible is splendid.
Let's go home. We will dine, and sleep, and dream. That's it--I'll
dream of the morning that would not tarry--I'll dream my picture
out, and then I'll get up and smoke, and complete it, possibly--who
knows!
Let's go home.
* * * * *
Bam! Bam! It is evening now--the sun is setting. I didn't know the
close of the day could be so beautiful--I thought the morning was
the time.
But it is not just right--the sun is setting in an explosion of
yellow, of orange, of rouge-feu, of cherry, of purple.
Ah! it is pretentious, vulgar. Nature wants me to admire her--I will
not. I'll wait--the sylphs of the evening will soon come and
sprinkle the thirsty flowers with their vapors of dew.