theatre of tragedy - black as the devil painteth 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-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 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 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, lo! 'twixt the wizen roses a mossy grave:
"the devil is as black as he painteth" -
o canvas! wherefore?...