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