Tytuł: Black as the devil painteth

• Wykonawca: Theatre Of Tragedy
• Wyświetleń: 357

An artist is what is call'd the self that the brush holdeth -
   Though hath it then caringly caress'd the Canvas of to-morrow?,
   O Canvas! for thee I hold my tool - still! passionless it quivereth,
   Minding not that my hands are more than apt;
   My Muse,
  
   Where is hidden
   The blue-huéd arch'neath the High Heaven's rich emblazonry,
   The flowery meadow, embrac'd by the horizon - snowflakéd and aery mountains,
   In which the barebreastéd maidens dance to the lay o' midsummer,
   Aloft the distant lazy flapping of the doves in vainglore.
  
   O Canvas!, wherefore canst thou these images not allow? -
   I deem a projection of my Theatre they should be! -
   Then, I challenge thee the wisdom of naysaying the yearns o' mine -
   What is this unforseen that not enjoineth light shades to be skillfully paintéd?
  
   The raven sky prey'd on by the snowfill'd, blustery clouds,
   Unadornéd the meadow - hunger driveth the wolf out of the wood,
   The maidens chainéd and whippéd within a dreary dungeon -
   And, lo! 'twixt the wizen roses a mossy grave:
   "The Devil is as Black as he Painteth" -
   O Canvas! wherefore?...