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180426272.gif
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! passionlessly 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 - snowflakéd and aëry mountains,
In which the barebreastéd 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?
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 chainéd and whippéd 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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O Canvas! wherefore?...
«The Devil is as Black as he Painteth» -
And, lo! 'twixt the wizen roses a mossy grave:
The maidens chainéd and whippéd within a dreary dungeon -
Unadornéd the meadow - hunger driveth the wolf out of the wood,
The raven sky prey'd on by the snowfill'd, blustery clouds,
What is this unforseen that not enjoineth light shades to be skillfully paintéd?
Then, I challenge thee the wisdom of naysaying the yearns o' mine -
I deem a projection of my Theatre they should be! -
O Canvas!, wherefore canst thou these images not allow? -
Aloft the distant lazy flapping of the doves in vainglore.
In which the barebreastéd maidens dance to the lay o' midsummer,
The flowery meadow, embrac'd by the horizon - snowflakéd and aëry mountains,
The blue-huéd arch 'neath the High Heaven's rich emblazonry,
Where is hidden
My Muse,
Minding not that my hands are more than apt;
O Canvas! for thee I hold my tool - still! passionlessly it quivereth,
Though hath it then caringly caress'd the Canvas of to-morrow?,
An artist is what is call'd the self that the brush holdeth -
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