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?...
