A tyrant called, as tyrants used to do,
An artist, skilled in form, and tint, and line.
He bade him: “Paint for me a picture true
Of the tomorrow of this calm of mine.
Unfold for me the future’s portals wide.
Unlock the gateway of the years to be.
Whatever weal or woe they may betide
Return again and prophesy to me.”
The painter went and sought the open street.
He lingered there through many a watchful day
Where sons of wealth and ragged urchins meet
To talk, and laugh, and sing, and dream, and play.
Then once again the tyrant’s room he sought,
Unveiled for him the finished task, and smiled.
Lo, on the canvas he had deftly wrought
The pictured features of a little child.