Post-Impressionism

I cannot tell you how I love     The canvases of Mr. Dove,     Which Saturday I went to see     In Mr. Thurber's gallery.     At first you fancy they are built     As patterns for a crazy quilt,     But soon you see that they express     An ambient simultaneousness.     This thing which you would almost bet     Portrays a Spanish omelette,     Depicts instead, with wondrous skill,     A horse and cart upon a hill.     Now, Mr. Dove has too much art     To show the horse or show the cart;     Instead, he paints the creak and strain,     Get it? No pike is half as plain.     This thing which would appear to show     A fancy vest scenario,     Is really quite another thing,     A flock of pigeons on the wing.     But Mr. Dove is much too keen     To let a single bird be seen;     To show the pigeons would not do     And so he simply paints the coo.     It's all as simple as can be;     He paints the things you cannot see,     Just as composers please the ear     With "programme" things you cannot hear.     Dove is the cleverest of chaps;     And, gazing at his rhythmic maps,     I wondered (and I'm wondering yet)     Whether he did them on a bet.