When painters leave this world, we grieve For the hand that will work no more, But who can say that they rest alway On that still celestial shore? No! No! they choose from the rainbow hues, And winging from Paradise, They come to paint, now bold now faint, The tones of our sunset skies. When I see them there I can almost swear That grey is from Whistler's brain! That crimson flush was Turner's brush! And the gold is Claude Lorraine.