| Lyrics |
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-hu
éd arch'neath the High Heaven's rich emblazonry,
The flowery meadow, embrac'd by the horizon - snowflak
éd and aerymountains,
In which the barebreast
éd 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 skillfullypaint
éd?
The raven sky prey'd on by the snowfill'd, blustery clouds,
Unadorn
éd the meadow - hunger driveth the wolf out of the wood,
The maidens chain
éd and whipp
éd within a dreary dungeon -
And, lo! 'twixt the wizen roses a mossy grave:"
The Devil is as Black as he Painteth" -O Canvas! wherefore?...
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