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An artist is what is callâd the self that the brush holdeth â
Though hath it then caringly caressâd the Canvas of to-morrow?
O Canvas! For thee I hold my tool â still! Passionless it quivereth,
Minding not that my hands are more than apt;
My Muse!
Where is hidden
The blue-huéd arch âneath the High Heavenâs rich emblazonry,
The flowery meadow, embracâd by the horizon â snowflakâd and aery mountains,
In which the bare-breasted maidens dance to the lay oâ midsummer,
Aloft the distant lazy flapping of the doves in vainglore.
O Canvas!, wherefore canst thou these images not allow? â
I deem a projection of my Theatre they should be! â
Then, I challenge thee the wisdom of naysaying the yearns oâ mine â
What is this unforseen that not enjoineth light shades to be skillfully paintéd?
[I thought that love would last forever... I was wrong!]
The raven sky preyâd on by the snowfillâd, blustery clouds,
Unadornéd the meadow â hunger driveth the wolf out of the wood,
The maidens chainâd and whippâd within a dreary dungeon â
And, lo! âtwixt the wizen roses a mossy grave:
âThe Devil is as Black as he Paintethâ â
O Canvas! wherefore?...