Black As The Devil Painteth (Remix) 歌词

歌曲	Black As The Devil Painteth (Remix)
歌手	Theatre of Tragedy
专辑	A Rose For The Dead
下载	Image LRC TXT

	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 hidden
	The blue-huéd arch ’neath the High Heaven’s rich emblazonry,
	The flowery meadow, embrac’d by the horizon — snowflak’d and aery mountains,
	In which the bare-breasted 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 paintéd?
	I thought that love would last forever...
	I was wrong!
	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 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?...

	An artist is what is call' d the self that 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 bluehue 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 barebreasted 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 painte d?
	I thought that love would last forever...
	I was wrong!
	The raven sky prey' d on by the snowfill' d, blustery clouds,
	Unadorne 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?...

	An artist is what is call' d the self that 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 bluehué 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 barebreasted 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 painté d?
	I thought that love would last forever...
	I was wrong!
	The raven sky prey' d on by the snowfill' d, blustery clouds,
	Unadorné 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?...

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