Theatre Of Tragedy

An artist is what is call'd the self the brush holdeth -
Though hath it then caringly caress'd the Canvas of tomorrow?
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-hued arch'neath the High Heaven's rich emblazonry
The flowery meadow, embrac'd by the horizon -
snowflaked and aery mountains,
In which the barebreasted maidens dance to the lay o'midsummer,
Aloft the distant lazy flapping of the doves in vaingfore.