Black as the devil painteth Lyrics

	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! passionless 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 aery 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?...

	An artist is what is call' d the self that 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 bluehue d arch' neath the High Heaven' s rich emblazonry,
	The flowery meadow, embrac' d by the horizon snowflake d and aery mountains,
	In which the barebreaste d 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 painte d?

	The raven sky prey' d on by the snowfill' d, blustery clouds,
	Unadorne d the meadow hunger driveth the wolf out of the wood,
	The maidens chaine d and whippe d within a dreary dungeon
	And, lo! ' twixt the wizen roses a mossy grave:
	" The Devil is as Black as he Painteth"
	O Canvas! wherefore?...

	An artist is what is call' d the self that 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 bluehué d arch' neath the High Heaven' s rich emblazonry,
	The flowery meadow, embrac' d by the horizon snowflaké d and aery mountains,
	In which the barebreasté d 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 painté d?

	The raven sky prey' d on by the snowfill' d, blustery clouds,
	Unadorné d the meadow hunger driveth the wolf out of the wood,
	The maidens chainé d and whippé d 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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