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SONNETS
THE ARTIST
Is't hope of fame induces you to write?
Oh no! long since I have renounced that hope.
Maybe 'tis gain that doth your pen incite?
To think of that would end soon in a rope.
Why spend yourself then in a bootless toil?
Is't to please man the nightingale doth sing,
Or shines the sun because it loves earth's soil?
Beauty from things external doth not spring,
Nowhere doth it exist save in the soul.
Art is the artist's only aim and end,
Creation is his all-sufficient goal:
All boundaries his daring thoughts transcend:
Let him but chant his song and paint his dream
What cares your Blake though all the world blaspheme?
Oh no! long since I have renounced that hope.
Maybe 'tis gain that doth your pen incite?
To think of that would end soon in a rope.
Why spend yourself then in a bootless toil?
Is't to please man the nightingale doth sing,
Or shines the sun because it loves earth's soil?
Beauty from things external doth not spring,
Nowhere doth it exist save in the soul.
Art is the artist's only aim and end,
Creation is his all-sufficient goal:
All boundaries his daring thoughts transcend:
Let him but chant his song and paint his dream
What cares your Blake though all the world blaspheme?
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