Luyện nghe bài hát Black As The Devil Painteth (remix)

An artist is is call'd the self that the brush holdeth -
hath it then caringly caress'd the
of to-morrow?,
O Canvas! for thee I hold my tool - still! it quivereth,
Minding not that my hands are more than
My Muse,
Where is
The arch'neath the High Heaven's rich emblazonry,
The meadow, embrac'd by the horizon - snowflakd and aery
mountains,
In which the barebreastd dance to the lay o' midsummer,
Aloft the distant flapping of the doves in vainglore.
O Canvas!, canst thou these images not allow? -
I deem a of my Theatre they should be! -
Then, I challenge thee the wisdom of naysaying the yearns o' -
is this unforseen that not enjoineth light shades to be skillfully

The raven sky on by the snowfill'd, blustery clouds,
the meadow - hunger driveth the wolf out of the wood,
The maidens chaind and whippd within a dreary -
And, lo! the wizen roses a mossy grave:
"The Devil is as as he Painteth" -
O Canvas! wherefore?...