There is a legend, there is a fable,

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that waiting inside the chest of every Artist is a Nature of its own.

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It has also been said that it's a place of great beauty.

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The Artist's soul needs that beauty for food.

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The poets have called it a sanctuary, and say that he who but seldom goes there cannot help but be depressed.

 

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Could it be?

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Could it be a place of purple mountains in which the sun comes to dance?

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Could the sky dump magic blue, a special cobalt, into a man's cup,

and thereby introduce him to forever?

 

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And the stallions?  Do they who rule the plains lend him their untamed passions? 

 

Herring went there long ago, unable to resist the temptation.

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What did he carry with him?

 

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Just one thing: The spirit of William Butler Yeats, who said,

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"I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic's heart."