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of modern painters, he is dead!—

Whistler, in whom death seemed to have no part:

He of the nimble wit and jocund heart,

Who sipped youth's nectar at the fountain-head,

And felt its wine through all his veins run red:

Who worshiped the ideal—not the mart,

And blessed the world with an imperial Art,

Whereby who longs for beauty may be fed!

When things men deem momentous are forgot,

Laurels will bloom for him that wither not;