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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 hud arch'neath the High Heaven's rich emblazonry
The flowery meadow embrac'd by the horizon snowflakd and aery mountains
In which the barebreastd 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 paintd
The raven sky prey'd on by the snowfill'd blustery clouds
Unadornd the meadow hunger driveth the wolf out of the wood
The maidens chaind and whippd 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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