Theatre of Tragedy "Black As The Devil Painteth" lyrics

Black As The Devil Painteth

An artist is what is call'd the self that the brush holdeth -Though hath it then caringlycaress'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 hiddenThe 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 maidensdance 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 theethe wisdom of naysaying the yearns o' mine -What is this unforseenthat not enjoineth light shades to be skillfully paintéd?

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 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?...

Here one can find the lyrics of the song Black As The Devil Painteth by Theatre of Tragedy. Or Black As The Devil Painteth poem lyrics. Theatre of Tragedy Black As The Devil Painteth text.