Why, in the eyes that do not see us,

We fear, we are not the same

Is why the painter knows once smeared,

His art has changed.

For in his masterpiece the painter,

Has created nothing,

But taking from himself a little,

Taken another name.

He fears Time, may add or take,

Change all together,

His art, since turned a gift,

Not his any longer.

Oh! how, he does not now know his art,

He does not know you Time;

Understand, and in kindness grant

What of the painting remains.