Bam! the sun is risen.
I see the river, like a stretch of silver ribbon; it weaves in and out and stretches away, away, away.
The masses of the trees, of the meads, the meadows—the poplars, the leaning willows, are all revealed by the mist that is reeling and rolling up the hillside.
I paint and I paint and I paint, and I sing and I sing and I paint!
We can see now all we guessed before.
Bam, Bam! The sun is just above the horizon—a great golden ball held in place by spider-threads.
I can see the lace made by the spiders—it sparkles with the drops of dew.
I paint and I paint and I sing and I paint.
Oh, would I were Joshua—I would command the sun to stand still.
And if it should, I would be sorry, for nothing ever did stand still, except a bad picture. A good picture is full of motion. Clouds that stand still are not clouds—motion, activity, life, yes, life is what we want—life!