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&lt;a href=&quot;https://www.arthur-conan-doyle.com/index.php?title=A_Post-Impressionist&amp;amp;diff=137176&amp;amp;oldid=46711&quot;&gt;Show changes&lt;/a&gt;</summary>
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		<title>TCDE-Team at 15:34, 21 July 2016</title>
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&lt;p&gt;&lt;b&gt;New page&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div&gt;&amp;#039;&amp;#039;A Post-Impressionist&amp;#039;&amp;#039; is a poem written by [[Arthur Conan Doyle]] first published in the collected volume [[Songs of the Road]] on 16 march 1911.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
__TOC__&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
== Editions ==&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
* in &amp;#039;&amp;#039;[[Songs of the Road]]&amp;#039;&amp;#039; (16 march 1911, [[Smith, Elder &amp;amp; Co.]] [UK])&lt;br /&gt;
* in &amp;#039;&amp;#039;[[Songs of the Road]]&amp;#039;&amp;#039; (october 1911, [[Doubleday &amp;amp; McClure Co.|Doubleday, Page &amp;amp; Co.]] [US])&lt;br /&gt;
* in &amp;#039;&amp;#039;[[Songs of the Road]]&amp;#039;&amp;#039; (27 january 1920, [[John Murray]] [UK])&lt;br /&gt;
* in &amp;#039;&amp;#039;[[Songs of the Road]]&amp;#039;&amp;#039; (february 1920, [[John Murray]] [UK])&lt;br /&gt;
* in &amp;#039;&amp;#039;[[The Poems of Arthur Conan Doyle]]&amp;#039;&amp;#039; (21 september 1922, [[John Murray]] [UK])&lt;br /&gt;
* in &amp;#039;&amp;#039;[[The Poems of Arthur Conan Doyle]]&amp;#039;&amp;#039; (14 september 1928, [[John Murray]]&amp;#039;s &amp;#039;&amp;#039;Fiction Library&amp;#039;&amp;#039; [UK])&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
== A Post-Impressionist ==&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Peter Wilson, A.R.A.,&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
In his small atelier&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Studied Continental Schools,&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Drew by Academic rules.&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
So he made his bid for fame&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
But no golden answer came,&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
For the fashion of his day&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Chanced to set the other way,&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
And decadent forms of Art&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Drew the patrons of the mart.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Now this poor reward of merit&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Rankled so in Peter&amp;#039;s spirit,&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
It was more than he could bear ;&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
So one night in mad despair&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
He took his canvas for the year&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
(&amp;#039;Isle of Wight from Southsea Pier&amp;#039;),&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
And he hurled it from his sight,&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Hurled it blindly to the night,&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Saw it fall diminuendo&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
From the open lattice window,&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Till it landed with a flop&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
On the dust-bin&amp;#039;s ashen top,&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Where, &amp;#039;mid damp and rain and grime.&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
It remained till morning time.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Then when morning brought reflection&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
He was shamed at his dejection,&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
And he thought with consternation&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Of his poor ill-used creation ;&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Down he rushed, and found it there&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Lying all exposed and bare,&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Mud-bespattered, spoiled and botched,&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Water sodden, fungus-blotched,&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
All the outlines blurred and wavy.&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
All the colours turned to gravy.&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Fluids of a dappled hue,&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Blues on red and reds on blue,&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
A pea-green mother with her daughter.&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Crazy boats on crazy watfer&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Steering out to who knows what,&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
An island or a lobster-pot ?&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Oh, the wretched man&amp;#039;s despair!&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Was it lost beyond repair?&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Swift he bore it from below,&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Hastened to the studio.&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Where with anxious eyes he studied&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
If the ruin, blotched and muddied.&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Could by any human skill&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Be made a normal picture still.&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Thus in most repentant mood&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Unhappy Peter Wilson stood,&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
When, with pompous face, self-centred,&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Willoughby the critic entered—&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
He of whom it has been said&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
He lives a century ahead—&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
And sees with his prophetic eye&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
The forms which Time will justify,&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
A fact which surely must abate&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
All longing to reincarnate.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&amp;#039;Ah, Wilson,&amp;#039; said the famous man,&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Turning himself the walls to scan,&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&amp;#039;The same old style of thing I trace,&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Workmanlike but commonplace.&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Believe me, sir, the work that lives&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Must furnish more than Nature gives.&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&amp;quot;The light that never was,&amp;quot; you know.&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
That is your mark—but here, hullo!&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
What&amp;#039;s this ? What &amp;#039;s this ? Magnificent !&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
I&amp;#039;ve wronged you, Wilson ! I repent !&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
A masterpiece ! A perfect thing !&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
What atmosphere ! What colouring !&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Spanish Armada, is it not ?&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
A view of Ryde, no matter what,&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
I pledge my critical renown&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
That this will be the talk of Town.&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Where did you get those daring hues,&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Those blues on reds, those reds on blues ?&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
That pea-green face, that gamboge sky ?&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
You Ve far outcried the latest cry—&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Out Monet-ed Monet. I have said&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Our Art was sleeping, but not dead.&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Long have we waited for the Star,&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
I watched the skies for it afar.&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
The hour has come—and here you are.&amp;#039;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
And that is how our artist friend&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Found his struggles at an end,&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
And from his little Chelsea flat&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Became the Park Lane plutocrat.&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&amp;#039;Neath his sheltered garden wall&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
When the rain begins to fall,&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
And the stormy winds do blow,&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
You may see them in a row.&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Red effects and lake and yellow&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Getting nicely blurred and mellow.&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
With the subtle gauzy mist&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Of the great Impressionist.&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
Ask him how he chanced to find&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
How to leave the French behind,&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
And he answers quick and smart,&amp;lt;br /&amp;gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&amp;#039;English climate&amp;#039;s best for Art.&amp;#039;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
----&lt;br /&gt;
* [[Sir Arthur Conan Doyle:Complete Works|Back to Complete Works]]&lt;br /&gt;
* [[Sir Arthur Conan Doyle|Back to Conan Doyle]]&lt;/div&gt;</summary>
		<author><name>TCDE-Team</name></author>
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