Black As The Devil Painteth

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, passionlessly itquivereth

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 aërymountains

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 beskillfully paintéd?

(I thought that love would last forever. I was wrong)

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?

The Devil is as black as he painteth. O Canvas, wherefore?