Black as the Devil Painteth - Theatre Of Tragedy, Das Ich

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 — snowflak’d and aery mountains

In which the bare-breasted 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?

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 chain’d and whipp’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…