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To the Painter
What warped illusions casts thine bristled wand?
Imbues the foul with the fairest of traits,
Copies what well-endowed Nature hath drawn,
Yet conjures praise for what it duplicates.
Cheap thine magic for all born as mimics,
Paints all a specious portrait with their brush,
Faults and slips concealed by tonal gimmicks,
Thine true picture exposed by fading blush.
By reaping Time, thine canvass disfigured,
Wild deceit he dispels; Truth he ensnares,
Only the Sublime shalt he transfigure,
And leave thine decrepit frame, worse for wear.
Painter, honor th’ image long-handed down,
Else be deceived and don the jester’s crown.
-Q-
@WindsPoetic