'Twas mid-day when I sat
Ready with paint and brush and all that.
Upon the stool I sat brush in hand
But like a bowl of lentils plain, my mind 'twas bland.
Minute after minute, hour after hour
Passed before not one idear did flow'r.
'Twas mid-night when I stood
Brush and paint in hand I did not think I could
Create even a twig or blade o' grass.
So I took my brush, my paint, and all th' mass
And turned quite sudden to throw them all
In to th' depths of nearest lake to fall.
But unbeknownst to me,
That hellish stool on which I sat to paint thee
Had fallen to that curséd ground
With the intent to trip me I soon found.
And fall I did in to th' nearest lake
With paint and brush and all that I did hate.
And 'twas then that I thought
As I did sink, 'twas then I was caught
With thine image of pure light.
'Twas then one hour past mid-night
When I beheld thy face of peace
Upon my canvas painted piece by piece.
Then I rose to the surface calm as could be.
I took my soaked paint and brush and all that I could see,
And sat upon that hellish stool
To paint thee floating in that pool.
So 'tis to thee that I do write this bit of Posey.
To thee, O my dear, my blesséd beauty.