We Had A Kettle; We Let It

I Have No Gift Of Words, But I Speak The Truth.

A Thin Grey Fog Hung Over The City, And The Streets Were Very Cold; For Summer Was In England.

What Is A Woman That You Forsake Her, And The Hearth-fire And The Home-acre, To Go With The Old Grey Widow-maker?

They Copied All They Could Copy, But They Couldn't Copy My Mind; And I Left Them Sweatin' And Stealin', A Year And A Half Behind.

And The First Rude Sketch That The World Had Seen Was Joy To His Mighty Heart, Till The Devil Whispered Behind The Leaves 'it's Pretty, But Is It Art?'