Текст (слова) песни: Theatre Of Tragedy - Black As The Devil Painteth
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?...
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