Paroles de Black as the devil painteth

Theatre Of Tragedy

pochette album Black as the devil painteth
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Date de parution : 01/01/1996

Durée : 0:05:26

Style : Rock



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An artist is what is call'd the self 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 blue-hued arch'neath the high heaven's rich emblazonry
The flowery meadow, embrac'd by the horizon -
Snowflaked and aery mountains,
In which the barebreasted maidens dance to the lay o'midsummer,
Aloft the distant lazy flapping of the doves in vaingfore.

O canvas! wherefore canst thou these images not allow? -
I deem a projection of my theatre they sould be! -
Then, i challenge thee the wisdom of naysaying the yearns o'mine -
What is this unforeseen that not enjoyneth light
Shades to be skillfully painted?

The raven sky prey'd on by the snowfill'd, blustery clouds
Unadorned the meadow - hunger driveth the wolf out of the wood,
The maidens chained and whipped within a dreary dungeon -
And, fo! 'twixt the wizen roses a mossy grave;
"the devil is as black as he painteth" -
O canvas! wherefore?...

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