Luyện nghe bài hát Black As The Devil Painteth

An is what is call'd the self the brush holdeth -
Though hath it caringly caress'd the Canvas of tomorrow?
O Canvas! for thee I hold my tool - passionless it quivereth
Minding not that my hands are than apt;
My Muse,

Where is
The blue-hued arch'neath the High Heaven's rich
The flowery meadow, embrac'd by the -
and aery mountains,
In which the maidens dance to the lay o'midsummer,
Aloft the distant lazy flapping of the in vaingfore.

O Canvas! wherefore thou these images not allow? -
I deem a projection of my Theatre they be! -
Then, I challenge thee the wisdom of naysaying the o'mine -
What is unforeseen that not enjoyneth light
shades to be skillfully

The raven sky on by the snowfill'd, blustery clouds
Unadorned the meadow - hunger driveth the out of the wood,
The maidens and whipped within a dreary dungeon -
And, fo! 'twixt the wizen roses a grave;
"The Devil is as as He Painteth" -
O Canvas! wherefore?...