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 — snowflak'd and aery mountains,
In which the bare-breasted 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?
I thought that love would last forever...
I was wrong!
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 chain'd and whipp'd within a dreary dungeon —
And, lo! 'twixt the wizen roses a mossy grave:
"The Devil is as Black as he Painteth" —
O Canvas! wherefore?...
Black As The Devil Painteth Lyrics performed by Theatre Of Tragedy are property and copyright of the authors, artists and labels. You should note that Black As The Devil Painteth Lyrics performed by Theatre Of Tragedy is only provided for educational purposes only and if you like the song you should buy the CD