I cannot tell you how I love
The canvases of Mr. Dove,
Which Saturday I went to see
In Mr. Thurber's gallery.
At first you fancy they are built
As patterns for a crazy quilt,
But soon you see that they express
An ambient simultaneousness.
This thing which you would almost bet
Portrays a Spanish omelette,
Depicts instead, with wondrous skill,
A horse and cart upon a hill.
Now, Mr. Dove has too much art
To show the horse or show the cart;
Instead, he paints the creak and strain,
Get it? No pike is half as plain.
This thing which would appear to show
A fancy vest scenario,
Is really quite another thing,
A flock of pigeons on the wing.
But Mr. Dove is much too keen
To let a single bird be seen;
To show the pigeons would not do
And so he simply paints the coo.
It's all as simple as can be;
He paints the things you cannot see,
Just as composers please the ear
With "programme" things you cannot hear.
Dove is the cleverest of chaps;
And, gazing at his rhythmic maps,
I wondered (and I'm wondering yet)
Whether he did them on a bet.