Sunday in New York #14

The Artist

Here one of us is born, made as a lens,

Or else to lens-shape cruelly smooth-ground,

To gather light, the light that shines on all,

In concentrated flame it glows, pure fine,

With light a hundredfold, more light for all.


Come and receive, take with the eye or ear,

Take and be filled, illumined, overflowed;

Then go and shine again, your whole work lit,

Your whole heart warm and luminous and glad’

Go shine again-and spread the gladness wide;


Happy the lens!To gather skies of light

And focus it, making the splendor there!

Happy all we who are enriched therewith,

And redistribute ever, swift and far.


The artist is the intermediate lens

Of God, and so best gives Him to the world,

Intensified, interpreted, to us.

Charlotte Perkins Gilman. The Yellow Wall-Paper, Herland & selected writings. Pag.340