What shone so purely yonder in soft air!
And yet I drew—year after year I drew;
Until the pictures, that I once so loved,
Though better drawn, seemed not of things I knew,
But dreamed perhaps; my heart no longer moved;
And it no longer mattered if the rain
Wiped out what I had drawn with so much pain.
I only care to find the best-paid places,
To get there first and get my pictures done,