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.