An artist is what is call'd the self that the brush holdeth -
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Though hath it then caringly caress'd the Canvas of to-morrow?,
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O Canvas! for thee I hold my tool - still! passionless it quivereth,
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Minding not that my hands are more than apt;
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My Muse,
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Where is hidden
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The blue-hued arch'neath the High Heaven's rich emblazonry,
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The flowery meadow, embrac'd by the horizon - snowflaked and aery mountains,
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In which the barebreasted maidens dance to the lay o' midsummer,
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Aloft the distant lazy flapping of the doves in vainglore.
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O Canvas!, wherefore canst thou these images not allow? -
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I deem a projection of my Theatre they should be! -
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Then, I challenge thee the wisdom of naysaying the yearns o' mine -
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What is this unforseen that not enjoineth light shades to be skillfully painted?
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The raven sky prey'd on by the snowfill'd, blustery clouds,
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Unadorned the meadow - hunger driveth the wolf out of the wood,
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The maidens chained and whipped within a dreary dungeon -
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And, lo! 'twixt the wizen roses a mossy grave:
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"The Devil is as Black as he Painteth" -
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O Canvas! wherefore?...
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-----------------
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Black As The Devil Painteth
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| Theatre Of Tragedy |
