LIFE IS A PAINTING
All life's a canvas painted
On by thought, figment of the mind;
All life's a portrait sainted
Unfinish'd, raw, and marr'd and tainted
Splinters blind--of wildest musing;
Madly squirming, gamb'ling, frisking
Standing still, or God accusing;
A rumpled mass, a wandering ghost,
Mounted on an easel of bitter cares,
Caressed by sugared brushes of poetry
Blest and accurst at once, darling angel
Or evil sprite of myriad wiles and wares--
A sweet disaster and an enchanting nightmare
Life is born a thought, and to its master's caprice
So oft falls it slave, so oft 'tis stripped of justice,
So oft its art to wickedness transmogrified;
Anarchy, much anarchy still but harmony!
Comedy's tragedy, a murd'rous acrid irony,
Most of the time a sporadic fit of elation
Throbbing through the soul with glazed eyes;
Oh much of life's a macabre creation
A heap of transient joys and a pile of lies,
Philosophy and notions, complications--
False ideas, pretext, all intricacy. . . what vice!
Life, like art, is more on grasping that fact
That we but of little things comprise.
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A/N: not a very good one, I admit. ^^"