Black As The Devil Painteth

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 hiddenThe blue-hu�d arch'neath the High Heaven's rich emblazonry,The flowery meadow, embrac'd by the horizon - snowflak�d and aery mountains,In which the barebreast�d 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 paint�d?The raven sky prey'd on by the snowfill'd, blustery clouds,Unadorn�d the meadow - hunger driveth the wolf out of the wood,The maidens chain�d and whipp�d within a dreary dungeon -And, lo! 'twixt the wizen roses a mossy grave:"The Devil is as Black as he Painteth" -O Canvas! wherefore?...