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

An artist is what is call'd the 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 blue-hud arch'neath the High Heaven's emblazonry,
The flowery meadow, by the horizon - snowflakd and aery
mountains,
In which the barebreastd dance to the lay o' midsummer,
Aloft the distant lazy flapping of the in vainglore.
O Canvas!, canst 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 -
is this unforseen that not enjoineth light shades to be skillfully

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