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letra de black as the devil painteth (remix) - theatre of tragedy

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! p-ssionless 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, bl-stery 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?…

- theatre of tragedy

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