An artist is what is call'd the self that the brush holdeth -

Though hath it then caringly caress'd the Canvas of to-morrow?,

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-huéd arch'neath the High Heaven's rich emblazonry,

The flowery meadow, embrac'd by the horizon - snowflakéd and aery mountains,

In which the barebreastéd maidens dance to the lay o' midsummer,

Aloft the distant lazy flapping of the doves in vainglore.



O Canvas!, wherefore canst thou these images not allow? -

I deem a projection of my Theatre they should be! -

Then, I challenge thee the wisdom of naysaying the yearns o' mine -

What is this unforseen that not enjoineth light shades to be skillfully paintéd?



The raven sky prey'd on by the snowfill'd, blustery clouds,

Unadornéd the meadow - hunger driveth the wolf out of the wood,

The maidens chainéd and whippéd within a dreary dungeon -

And, lo! 'twixt the wizen roses a mossy grave:

"The Devil is as Black as he Painteth" -

O Canvas! wherefore