I made a picture; all my heart I put in it, and all I knew Of canvas-cunning and of Art, Of tenderness and passion true. A worshipped Master came to see; Oh he was kind and gentle, too. He studied it with sympathy, And sensed what I had sought to do.
Said he: "Your paint is fresh and fair, And I can praise it without cease; And yet a touch just here and there Would make of it a masterpiece." He took the brush from out my hand; He touched it here, he touched it there. So well he seemed to understand, And momently it grew more fair.
Oh there was nothing I could say, And there was nothing I could do. I thanked him, and he went his way, And then - I slashed my picture through. For though his brush with soft caress Had made my daub a thing divine, Oh God! I wept with bitterness, . . . It wasn't mine, it wasn't mine.