Four is to the artists’ kind,
as a suite of cards in a joker’s hand.
Like Puccini’s humour in the Parisian street?
No — this is of a different fleet.
The first is the apprentice so very virtuous,
timid yet heedful in the drawing room;
with each bellowing furnace far too studious,
every feathering edge was groomed.
The second is the poet very hopeless,
sustained by spirits in a rampant flow
— impoverished — improvised — helpless —
untamed are his inky cloak.
The third is the majestic maestro,
whose secret wears an empyrean robe;
‘Genius’ — the name of mystery’s swains,
is but mastery over passions and pains.
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To thyself be true my friend