An artist is what is called the self that the brush holdeth
Though hath it then caringly caressed the canvas of tomorrow?
Oh, 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-hued arch beneath the high heaven's rich emblazonry
The flowery meadow embraced by the horizon, snowflaked 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
Oh, 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 unforeseen that not enjoineth light shades
To be skillfully painted?
I thought that love would last forever
I was wrong
The raven sky preyed on by the snow-filled, blustery clouds
Unadorned the meadow, hunger driveth the wolf out of the wood
The maidens chained and whipped within a dreary dungeon
And lo, 'twixt the wizen roses a mossy grave
The devil is as black as he painteth
Oh, oh, canvas, wherefore?
The devil is as black as he painteth
Oh, oh, canvas, wherefore?
