Black As The Devil Painteth (remix) — текст песни (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! passionless it quivereth,
Minding not that my hands are more than apt;
My Muse,
Where is hidden
The blue-hud arch`neath the High Heaven`s rich emblazonry,
The flowery meadow, embrac`d by the horizon - snowflakd and aery
mountains,
In which the barebreastd 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
paintd?
The raven sky prey`d on by the snowfill`d, blustery clouds,
Unadornd the meadow - hunger driveth the wolf out of the wood,
The maidens chaind and whippd within a dreary dungeon -
And, lo! `twixt the wizen roses a mossy grave:
The Devil is as Black as he Painteth -
O Canvas! wherefore?...