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 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 paintd i thought that love would last forever i was wrong 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 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 