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| Nicolas de Staël Abstract Composition 1945 ink on paper Art Institute of Chicago |
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| Nicolas de Staël Marathon 1948 oil on canvas Tate Modern, London |
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| Nicolas de Staël Composition 1948 oil on canvas Phillips Collection, Washington DC |
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| Nicolas de Staël North 1949 oil on canvas Phillips Collection, Washington DC |
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| Nicolas de Staël Nocturne 1950 oil on canvas Phillips Collection, Washington DC |
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| Nicolas de Staël Landscape Study 1952 oil on board Tate Modern, London |
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| Nicolas de Staël Le Ciel Rouge 1952 oil on canvas Walker Art Center, Minneapolis |
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| Nicolas de Staël Parc de Sceaux 1952 oil on canvas Phillips Collection, Washington DC |
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| Nicolas de Staël Composition on Blue-Gray Ground 1953 collage on paper Hirshhorn Museum, Washington DC |
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| Nicolas de Staël Musicians 1953 oil on canvas Phillips Collection, Washington DC |
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| Nicolas de Staël White Bowl 1954 oil on canvas Cincinnati Art Museum, Ohio |
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| Nicolas de Staël The Seine 1954 oil on linen Hirshhorn Museum, Washington DC |
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| Nicolas de Staël Le Bateau 1954 oil on canvas Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art, Edinburgh |
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| Nicolas de Staël Nice 1954 oil on canvas Hirshhorn Museum, Washington DC |
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| Nicolas de Staël Nice before 1955 watercolor, gouache and ink on paper Hirshhorn Museum, Washington DC |
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| Nicolas de Staël Vue de Marseille ca. 1955 oil on canvas Los Angeles County Museum of Art |
from An Ode of Horace, not exactly copyed, but rudely imitated
Hence, ye Profane; I hate ye all;
Both the Great, Vulgar, and the small.
To Virgin Minds, which yet their native whiteness hold,
Not yet Discoloured with the Love of Gold,
(That Jaundice of the Soul,
Which makes it look so Guilded and so Foul)
To you, ye very Few, these truths I tell;
The Muse inspires my Song, Heark, and observe it well.
We look on Men, and wonder at such odds
'Twixt things that were the same by Birth;
We look on Kings as Giants of the Earth,
These Giants are but Pigmeys to the Gods.
The humblest Bush and proudest Oak,
Are but of equal proof against the Thunder-stroke.
Beauty, and Strength, and Wit, and Wealth, and Power
Have their short flourishing hour;
And love to see themselves, and smile,
And joy in their Preeminence a while;
Even so in the same Land,
Poor Weeds, rich Corn, gay Flowers together stand;
Alas, Death Mowes down all with an impartial Hand.
And all you Men, whom Greatness does so please,
Ye feast (I fear) like Damocles;
If you your eyes could upwards move,
(But you (I fear) think nothing is above)
You would perceive by what a little thread
The Sword still hangs over your head . . .
– Horace (65-8 BC), translated by Abraham Cowley (before 1667)