An artist is what is call’d the self the brush holdeth —
Though hath it then caringly caress’d the Canvas of tomorrow?
O Canvas! for thee I hold my tool — still passionless it quivereth
Minding not that my hands are more than apt;
My Muse,
Where is hidden
The blue-hued arch’neath the High Heaven’s rich emblazonry
The flowery meadow, embrac’d by the horizon —
snowflaked and aery mountains,
In which the barebreasted maidens dance to the lay o’midsummer,
Aloft the distant lazy flapping of the doves in vaingfore.
O Canvas! wherefore canst thou these images not allow? —
I deem a projection of my Theatre they sould be! —
Then, I challenge thee the wisdom of naysaying the yearns o’mine —
What is this unforeseen that not enjoyneth light
shades to be skillfully painted?
The raven sky prey’d on by the snowfill’d, blustery clouds
Unadorned the meadow — hunger driveth the wolf out of the wood,
The maidens chained and whipped within a dreary dungeon —
And, fo! ‘twixt the wizen roses a mossy grave;
«The Devil is as Black as He Painteth» —
O Canvas! wherefore?…