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Theatre Of Tragedy
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Black As The Devil Painteth
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Letra actual de la canción
An artist is what is call'd the self that the brush holdeth -<br />Though hath it then caringly caress'd the Canvas of to-morrow?,<br />O Canvas! for thee I hold my tool - still! passionless it quivereth,<br />Minding not that my hands are more than apt;<br />My Muse,<br /><br />Where is hidden<br />The blue-huéd arch'neath the High Heaven's rich emblazonry,<br />The flowery meadow, embrac'd by the horizon - snowflakéd and aery mountains,<br />In which the barebreastéd maidens dance to the lay o' midsummer,<br />Aloft the distant lazy flapping of the doves in vainglore.<br /><br />O Canvas!, wherefore canst thou these images not allow? -<br />I deem a projection of my Theatre they should be! -<br />Then, I challenge thee the wisdom of naysaying the yearns o' mine -<br />What is this unforseen that not enjoineth light shades to be skillfully paintéd?<br /><br />The raven sky prey'd on by the snowfill'd, blustery clouds,<br />Unadornéd the meadow - hunger driveth the wolf out of the wood,<br />The maidens chainéd and whippéd within a dreary dungeon -<br />And, lo! 'twixt the wizen roses a mossy grave:<br />The Devil is as Black as he Painteth -<br />O Canvas! wherefore?...
Letra nueva de la canción
An artist is what is call'd the self that the brush holdeth -<br />Though hath it then caringly caress'd the Canvas of to-morrow?,<br />O Canvas! for thee I hold my tool - still! passionless it quivereth,<br />Minding not that my hands are more than apt;<br />My Muse,<br /><br />Where is hidden<br />The blue-huéd arch'neath the High Heaven's rich emblazonry,<br />The flowery meadow, embrac'd by the horizon - snowflakéd and aery mountains,<br />In which the barebreastéd maidens dance to the lay o' midsummer,<br />Aloft the distant lazy flapping of the doves in vainglore.<br /><br />O Canvas!, wherefore canst thou these images not allow? -<br />I deem a projection of my Theatre they should be! -<br />Then, I challenge thee the wisdom of naysaying the yearns o' mine -<br />What is this unforseen that not enjoineth light shades to be skillfully paintéd?<br /><br />The raven sky prey'd on by the snowfill'd, blustery clouds,<br />Unadornéd the meadow - hunger driveth the wolf out of the wood,<br />The maidens chainéd and whippéd within a dreary dungeon -<br />And, lo! 'twixt the wizen roses a mossy grave:<br />The Devil is as Black as he Painteth -<br />O Canvas! wherefore?...
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