It's a few days later that another painting made its way into Sheehan's vicinity. There's no signature on it but it held a certain crudeness to it as that of an untrained and indifferent individual. Someone new and uninterested in the art of creating.
Fortunately, it was completely different than the first. The colors are bright and happy, and the scenery mimics a cheerful landscape of lush grasses and an adequate attempt at a sunrise in the distant horizon. It might have been a pretty scene if the art had been any good. There was some damage to one corner of the canvas as though someone might have gripped it in angry frustration before cooler thoughts prevailed and an attempt to restore it was made.
While there was no signature or explanation, on the back in hastily scribbled diction was a poem by William Butler Yeats.
Remorse For Intemperate Speech
I ranted to the knave and fool, But outgrew that school, Would transform the part, Fit audience found, but cannot rule My fanatic heart.
I sought my betters: though in each Fine manners, liberal speech, Turn hatred into sport, Nothing said or done can reach My fanatic heart.
Out of Ireland have we come. Great hatred, little room, Maimed us at the start. I carry from my mother's womb A fanatic heart.
An odd attempt at an apology if ever there was one but the deliberateness of each part of it and the placement for Sheehan to find it could be little else. It was much more tempting to continue painting bloody, gruesome scenes for an angry killer that missed such things. Yet here was something else.
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Fortunately, it was completely different than the first. The colors are bright and happy, and the scenery mimics a cheerful landscape of lush grasses and an adequate attempt at a sunrise in the distant horizon. It might have been a pretty scene if the art had been any good. There was some damage to one corner of the canvas as though someone might have gripped it in angry frustration before cooler thoughts prevailed and an attempt to restore it was made.
While there was no signature or explanation, on the back in hastily scribbled diction was a poem by William Butler Yeats.
Remorse For Intemperate Speech
I ranted to the knave and fool,
But outgrew that school,
Would transform the part,
Fit audience found, but cannot rule
My fanatic heart.
I sought my betters: though in each
Fine manners, liberal speech,
Turn hatred into sport,
Nothing said or done can reach
My fanatic heart.
Out of Ireland have we come.
Great hatred, little room,
Maimed us at the start.
I carry from my mother's womb
A fanatic heart.
An odd attempt at an apology if ever there was one but the deliberateness of each part of it and the placement for Sheehan to find it could be little else. It was much more tempting to continue painting bloody, gruesome scenes for an angry killer that missed such things. Yet here was something else.