Letra de Black as the devil painteth

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! passionlessly itquivereth,
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 - snowflakéd and
aërymountains,
In which the barebreastéd 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 beskillfully
paintéd?

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 chainéd and whippéd within a dreary dungeon -
And, lo! ´twixt the wizen roses a mossy grave:
«The Devil is as Black as he Painteth» -
O Canvas! wherefore?...