What Need Have They

Many believe that a troubled soul is the true muse of the true artist. That misery and anger brings out the words, brush strokes, of creation. I don't know if that's right or not, e'en though it affects me deep - but I find it strange that most don't ask why such may be. The only answer I can conjure is actually yet another question. What do the happy have to create? What need have they to make, to escape? In part, I have trouble agreeing, for I have written wonders in times of relative ease; or so I've been told. I have walked gaily through spring, and spoke of dewy fields of clover; arbitrary, aimless, desultory subjects, irregularly chosen by my mercurial muse. And yet I can also see it, in part, for my thieves of one's breath were in times of onerous strife; or so I've been told. I have trudged below naught but clouds, and spoke of grey days and black thoughts; distressed, disheartened, dejected prose, regularly presented to my downcast sight. I believe emotion, good and ill, can be victuals for the right muse. But I concede the point that comparatively, what have the joyous to escape, through art?