Theatre Of Tragedy - Black As The Devil Painteth 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 passionless 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.

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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 blustery 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?...

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