Interpret:

Theatre of Tragedy

Album:

Velvet Darkness They Fear

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 - snowflakéd and aery mountains, 
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 be skillfully 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?...