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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-huйd arch`neath the High Heaven`s rich emblazonry,

The flowery meadow, embrac`d by the horizon - snowflakйd and

aery mountains,

In which the barebreastйd 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 paintйd?



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

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

The maidens chainйd and whippйd within a dreary dungeon -

And, lo! `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 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-huйd arch`neath the High Heaven`s rich emblazonry,

The flowery meadow, embrac`d by the horizon - snowflakйd and

aery mountains,

In which the barebreastйd 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 paintйd?



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

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

The maidens chainйd and whippйd within a dreary dungeon -

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

"The Devil is as Black as he Painteth" -

O Canvas! wherefore?...

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