But the good abbot let him, for his pleasure,
Adorn with them his solitary cell.
One night the poor monk mused: “Could I but render
Honor to Christ as other painters do—
Were but my skill as great as is the tender
Love that inspires me when His cross I view!
“But no; ’tis vain I toil and strive in sorrow;
What man so scorns, still less can He admire;
My life’s work is all valueless; to-morrow
I’ll cast my ill-wrought pictures in the fire.”