There Is No Mirror To Nature
Every painter's stroke
Every bristle's baroque
Every visionary's dream
Every paper's scheme
Where elaborate touches and slivers of color
Seem to me like a child's caper
For no man can put me to paper
Tell me, Can they account for my vapor?
My swaying arms my rigid chest?
My working limbs that cannot rest?
My constant growth?!
From herein lies my loath!
So to every artist and dreaming child
I protest these acts which have made me so riled
For not any act from you folk
Can match the beauty of this Oak.