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Robert Kipniss Large Trees at Dusk 1962 oil on canvas Carnegie Museum of Art, Pittsburgh |
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Robert Kipniss Night Reflections 1969 lithograph Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington DC |
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Robert Kipniss Sheds and Fence 1969 lithograph Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington DC |
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Robert Kipniss Self Portrait 1969 drypoint National Portrait Gallery, Washington DC |
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Robert Kipniss Backyard 1972 lithograph Art Institute of Chicago |
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Robert Kipniss Interior with Suspended Plants 1975 lithograph Art Institute of Chicago |
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Robert Kipniss Landscape with Curved Road 1978-79 oil on canvas Milwaukee Art Museum |
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Robert Kipniss Window with Large Tree 1993 mezzotint Tacoma Art Museum, Washington State |
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Robert Kipniss Clear Vase and Landscape 1995 mezzotint Tacoma Art Museum, Washington State |
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Robert Kipniss Evening with White Porch 1996 mezzotint Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington DC |
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Robert Kipniss Appoggiatura 1999 mezzotint Minneapolis Institute of Art |
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Robert Kipniss Garden Shadows 2000 mezzotint McNay Art Museum, San Antonio, Texas |
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Robert Kipniss Without World 2000 mezzotint Minneapolis Institute of Art |
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Robert Kipniss Still LIfe with Dark Window 2001 mezzotint Dallas Museum of Art |
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Robert Kipniss Branches, Millerton 2003 mezzotint Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington DC |
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Robert Kipniss The Balanced Rock 2004 mezzotint Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington DC |
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Robert Kipniss Forest Murmurs II 2010 mezzotint Dallas Museum of Art |
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Robert Kipniss Hidden Trees 2018 mezzotint Dallas Museum of Art |
from Metamorphoses
In antient Times, as Story tells,
The Saints would often leave their Cells,
And strole about, but hide their Quality,
To try good People's Hospitality.
It happen'd on a Winter Night,
As Authors of the Legend write;
Two Brother Hermits, Saints by Trade,
Taking their Tour in Masquerade;
Disguis'd in tatter'd Habits, went
To a small Village down in Kent;
Where, in the Strolers Canting Strain,
They beg'd from Door to Door in vain;
Try'd ev'ry tone might Pity win,
But not a Soul would let them in.
Our wand'ring Saints in woful State,
Treated at this ungodly Rate,
Having thro' all the Village pass'd,
To a small Cottage came at last;
Where dwelt a good old honest Yeoman,
Call'd, in the Neighbourhood, Philemon.
Who kindly did the Saints invite
In his Poor Hut to pass the Night;
And then the Hospitable Sire
Bid Goody Baucis mend the Fire;
While He from out of Chimney took
A Flitch of Bacon off the Hook;
And freely from the fattest Side
Cut out large Slices to be fry'd:
Then stept aside to fetch em Drink,
Fill'd a large Jug up to the Brink;
And saw it fairly twice go round;
Yet (what is wonderful) they found,
'Twas all replenished to the Top,
As if they ne'er had toucht a Drop.
The good old Couple was amaz'd,
And often on each other gaz'd;
For both were frighted to the Heart,
And just began to cry; – What ar't!
Then softly turn'd aside to view,
Whether the Lights were burning blue.
The gentle Pilgrims soon aware on't,
Told 'em their Calling, and their Errant:
Good Folks, you need not be afraid,
We are but Saints, the Hermits said;
No Hurt shall come to You or Yours;
But, for that Pack of churlish Boors,
Not fit to live on Christian Ground,
They and their Houses shall be drown'd:
Whilst you shall see your Cottage rise,
And grow a Church before your Eyes.