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?...