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, passionlessly itquivereth
Minding not that my hands are more than apt, my Muse

Where is hidden the blue-huéd arch 'neath the High Heaven's rich emblazonry
The flowery meadow, embrac'd by the horizon, snowflakéd and aërymountains
In which the barebreastéd 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 beskillfully paintéd?

The raven sky prey'd on by the snowfill'd, blustery clouds
Unadornéd the meadow - hunger driveth the wolf out of the wood
The maidens chainéd and whippéd within a dreary dungeon
And, lo! 'twixt the wizen roses a mossy grave

The Devil is as Black as he Painteth. O Canvas, wherefore?
The Devil is as Black as he Painteth. O Canvas, wherefore?