To My Blesséd Beauty

'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.

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