There is a legend, there is a fable,
that waiting inside the chest of every Artist is a Nature of its own.
It has also been said that it's a place of great beauty.
The Artist's soul needs that beauty for food.
The poets have called it a sanctuary, and say that he who but seldom goes there cannot help but be depressed.
Could it be?
Could it be a place of purple mountains in which the sun comes to dance?
Could the sky dump magic blue, a special cobalt, into a man's cup,
and thereby introduce him to forever?
And the stallions? Do they who rule the plains lend him their untamed passions?
Herring went there long ago, unable to resist the temptation.
What did he carry with him?
Just one thing: The spirit of William Butler Yeats, who said,
"I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic's heart."