Black as the Devil Painteth-Theatre Of Tragedy

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-hud arch'neath the High Heaven's rich emblazonry, The flowery meadow, embrac'd by the horizon - snowflakd and aery mountains, In which the barebreastd 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 paintd? The raven sky prey'd on by the snowfill'd, blustery clouds, Unadornd the meadow - hunger driveth the wolf out of the wood, The maidens chaind and whippd within a dreary dungeon - And, lo! 'twixt the wizen roses a mossy grave: "The Devil is as Black as he Painteth" - O Canvas! wherefore?...