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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?...

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?...

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