His art when he feels is about to ebb;
Or reaches a point of disappearance;
This is the place he must start his romance,
And like a spider create his best web.
His mind and soul are blended with his art;
There follows spate of a new energy;
His art has turned to immortality;
The job of creation o’er-fills his heart.
And if he should go on undaunted still,
In to domains new and landscapes unseen;
Success appears no more a task uphill;
His life of art is bathed in a new sheen.
The Master Artist is more made than born,
With labor/ luck/ time every night and morn.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem