Mirage by Bliss Carman — Read

Here hangs at last, you see, my row / Of sketches, -- all I have to show / Of one enchanted summer spent / In sweet laborious content, / At little 'Sconset by the moors, / With the sea thundering by its doors, / Its grassy streets, and gardens gay / With hollyhocks and salvia.

And here upon the easel yet, / With the last brush of paint still wet, / (Showing how inspiration toils), / Is one where the white surf-line boils / Along the sand, and the whole sea / Lifts to the skyline, just to be / The wondrous background from whose verge / Of blue on blue there should emerge / This miracle.