Letra de Black as the Devil Painteth
An artist is what is called the self that the brush holdeth Though hath it then caringly caressed the canvas of tomorrow? Oh, canvas, for thee I hold my tool, still passionless it quivereth Minding not that my hands are more than apt My museWhere is hidden the blue-hued arch beneath the high heaven's rich emblazonry The flowery meadow embraced by the horizon, snowflaked and aery mountains In which the bare-breasted maidens dance to the lay o' midsummer Aloft the distant lazy flapping of the doves in vaingloreOh, 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 unforeseen that not enjoineth light shades To be skillfully painted?I thought that love would last forever I was wrongThe raven sky preyed on by the snow-filled, blustery clouds Unadorned the meadow, hunger driveth the wolf out of the wood The maidens chained and whipped within a dreary dungeon And lo, 'twixt the wizen roses a mossy graveThe devil is as black as he painteth Oh, oh, canvas, wherefore? The devil is as black as he painteth Oh, oh, canvas, wherefore?