He wrought with patience long and weary years Upon his masterpiece, entitled “Fate,” And dreamed sweet dreams, the while his crust he ate, And gave his work his soul, his strength, and tears. His task complete at last, he had no fears The world would not pronounce his genius great, But poor, unknown—pray, what could he create? The mad world laughed, and gave not praise, but jeers. Impelled to ask wherein his work was wrong, He sought, despairing, one whose art was dead, But on whose brow were wreathed the bays of Fame: The master gazed upon the picture long; “It lacks one thing to make it great,” he said, And signed the canvas with his own great name!
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Sub Title:
Poems of Sentiment: V. The Arts