Theatre Of Tragedy
Black As The Devil Painteth
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| Добавлена 1 сентября 2011 пользователем Iron Man |
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Текст песни Black As The Devil Painteth
An artist is what is call'd the self the brush holdeth -
Though hath it then caringly caress'd the Canvas of tomorrow?
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 vaingfore.
Though hath it then caringly caress'd the Canvas of tomorrow?
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 vaingfore.
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