Студент № 5

Студент № 6

Студент № 7

A maiden was of rarest beauty,

The painter was of great renown,

Wielding brushes was his duty,

She wielded naught but thorny crown.

His love for fellow human being

Was outweighed by love for Art.

The maiden's ache for sitting with him

Was breaking tiny wishful heart.

And once the painting was completed

The painter let out joyful cry.

And finally he would consider

The one who waited all this time.

The painting with the maiden on it,

Evoked in passers-by but dread

The sole and only reason for it:

The maiden was already dead

A girl of rarest beauty

She was all smiles and light;

He was a studious painter

Enchanted by his art –

The only foe she knew,

The thing she shunned, before

"I so wish to portray you"

The painter said to her.

In dark and gloomy chamber

She sat for many weeks

His fervid, burning labour

Drew all life from her cheeks.

And then the brush was given

And then the tint was placed

The canvas stood, uneven

The painter stood entranced.

The work he finalized

Was Life itself, indeed,

He turned to his young bride

And saw her lying dead

In mountains wild, a wounded knight

Found shelter from the stormy night.

Within a chamber, dim and cold,

He saw a frame of burnished gold.

A maiden’s face looked back at him

So lifelike, bright, though shadows dim.

Her beauty shined, her gaze was deep,

As if her soul forgot to sleep.

He read the tale the book had told:

An artist, young, with passion bold,

Had loved his bride beyond all fame

But love and art became the same.

He painted long, he painted true,

Her life he captured, shade and hue.

Yet with each stroke, her spirit fled,

Till she, at last, lay pale and dead.

He cried, "The work is life itself!"

But found her gone – his heartless wealth.

Her soul now trapped within the frame,

Her beauty bought by death and flame