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! passionlessly 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 aëry 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?…