Lyrics:

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-Huã©d Arch 'neath The High Heaven's Rich Emblazonry,
the Flowery Meadow, Embrac'd By The Horizon - Snowflakã©d And Aã«ry Mountains,
in Which The Barebreastã©d 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 Paintã©d

the Raven Sky Prey'd On By The Snowfill'd, Blustery Clouds,
unadornã©d The Meadow - Hunger Driveth The Wolf Out Of The Wood,
the Maidens Chainã©d And Whippã©d Within A Dreary Dungeon -
and, Lo! 'twixt The Wizen Roses A Mossy Grave
â«the Devil Is As Black As He Paintethâ» -
o Canvas! Wherefore