Black  As  the  Devil  Painteth  (R  -  Theatre  Of  Tragedy

  An  artist  is  what  is  call'd  the  self  the  brush  holdeth

    Though  hath  it  then  caringly  caress'd  the  Canvas  of  tomorrow

    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-hued  arch'neath  the  High  Heaven's  rich  emblazonry

    The  flowery  meadow  embrac'd  by  the  horizon

    Snowflaked  and  aery  mountains

    In  which  the  barebreasted  maidens  dance  to  the  lay  o'midsummer

    Aloft  the  distant  lazy  flapping  of  the  doves  in  vaingfore

    O  Canvas  wherefore  canst  thou  these  images  not  allow

    I  deem  a  projection  of  my  Theatre  they  sould  be

    Then  I  challenge  thee  the  wisdom  of  naysaying  the  yearns  o'mine

    What  is  this  unforeseen  that  not  enjoyneth  light

    Shades  to  be  skillfully  painted

    The  raven  sky  prey'd  on  by  the  snowfill'd  blustery  clouds

    Unadorned  the  meadow  hunger  driveth  the  wolf  out  of  the  wood

    The  maidens  chained  and  whipped  within  a  dreary  dungeon

    And  fo  twixt  the  wizen  roses  a  mossy  grave

    The  Devil  is  as  Black  as  He  Painteth

    O  Canvas  wherefore