As if he’d like to put me in a book
(Fancies himself a poet, so they say.)
Ah well! He’ll make no “document” of me.
I lock my door. Ha! ha! Now none shall see…
Pictures, just pictures piled from roof to floor,
Each one a bit of me, a dream fulfilled,
A vision of the beauty I adore.
My own poor glimpse of glory, passion-thrilled…
But now my money’s gone, I paint no more.
For three days past I have not tasted food;
The jeweled colors run… I reel, I faint;
They tell me that my pictures are no good,
Just crude and childish daubs, a waste of paint.
I burned to throw on canvas all I saw–
Twilight on water, tenderness of trees,
Wet sands at sunset and the smoking seas,
The peace of valleys and the mountain’s awe:
Emotion swayed me at the thought of these.
I sought to paint ere I had learned to draw,
And that’s the trouble.…
Ah well! here am I,
Facing my failure after struggle long;
And there they are, my croutes that none will buy
(And doubtless they are right and I am wrong);
Well, when one's lost one's faith it's time to die…
This knife will do… and now to slash and slash
Rip them to ribands, rend them every one,
My dreams and visions–tear and stab and gash,
