2. 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! Passionless It Quivereth,
Minding Not That My Hands Are More Than Apt;
My Muse,
Where Is Hidden
The Blue-huйd Arch'neath The High Heaven's Rich Emblazonry,
The Flowery Meadow, Embrac'd By The Horizon - Snowflakйd And Aery Mountains,
In Which The Barebreastйd 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 Paintйd?
The Raven Sky Prey'd On By The Snowfill'd, Blustery Clouds,
Unadornйd The Meadow - Hunger Driveth The Wolf Out Of The Wood,
The Maidens Chainйd And Whippйd Within A Dreary Dungeon -
And, Lo! 'twixt The Wizen Roses A Mossy Grave:
"the Devil Is As Black As He Painteth" -
O Canvas! Wherefore?...
Вверх