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Theatre Of Tragedy
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Black As the Devil Painteth (Rmx V2)
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.
O Canvas! wherefore canst thou these images not allow? - Find more lyrics at ※ Mojim.com I deem a projection of my Theatre they sould be! - Then, I challenge thee the wisdom of naysaying the yearns o'mine - What is this unforeseen that not enjoyneth 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, fo! 'twixt the wizen roses a mossy grave; 'The Devil is as Black as He Painteth' - O Canvas! wherefore?...
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