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 — snowflak'd and aery mountains
In which the bare-breasted 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?

I thought that love would last forever...
I was wrong!

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 chain'd and whipp'd within a dreary dungeon —
And, lo! 'twixt the wizen roses a mossy grave:
"The Devil is as Black as he Painteth" —
O Canvas! wherefore?...