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

An artist is what is call'd the self that the holdeth -
hath it then caringly caress'd the
of to-morrow?,
O Canvas! for thee I my tool - still! passionless 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 meadow, embrac'd by the horizon - snowflakd and aery
mountains,
In the barebreastd maidens 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 thee the wisdom of naysaying the yearns o' mine -
What is unforseen that not enjoineth light shades to be skillfully

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