Black As The Devil Painteth (remix) Lyrics - 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?...