Theatre Of Tragedy - 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 It Quivereth,
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 Aëry Mountains,
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 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
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