Her easel bore the colors of her mind
As Lily Briscoe painted strokes of thought
And yet, she seemed confused by what she brought
To canvas, and the things she left behind
She wondered with each stroke what she might find
And whether she could capture what she sought
Her art would not be sold, would not be bought
She was an artist of another kind
In time she let her art consume her life
She thought a life consumed by art was best
And though she might have been the Bankes man’s wife
I’m sure it is a life that she’d detest!
With colored strokes and form her thoughts were rife
Until her perfect vision was expressed.