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black as the devil painteth - theatre of tragedy lyrics

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an artist is what is call’d the self the brush holdeth –
though hath it then caringly caress’d the canvas of tomorrow?
o canvas! for thee i hold my tool – still p-ssionless it quivereth
minding not that my hands are more than apt;
my muse,

where is hidden
the blue-hued arch’neath the high heaven’s rich emblazonry
the flowery meadow, embrac’d by the horizon –
snowflaked and aery mountains,
in which the barebreasted maidens dance to the lay o’midsummer,
aloft the distant lazy flapping of the doves in vaingfore.

o canvas! wherefore canst thou these images not allow? –
i deem a projection of my theatre they sould be! –
then, i challenge thee the wisdom of naysaying the yearns o’mine –
what is this unforeseen that not enjoyneth light
shades to be skillfully painted?

the raven sky prey’d on by the snowfill’d, bl-stery clouds
unadorned the meadow – hunger driveth the wolf out of the wood,
the maidens chained and whipped within a dreary dungeon –
and, fo! ‘twixt the wizen roses a mossy grave;
“the devil is as black as he painteth” –
o canvas! wherefore?…

- theatre of tragedy lyrics

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