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Şarkı Sözleri An artist is what is call'd the self the brush holdeth -Though hath it then caringly caress'd the Canvas of tomorrow?O Canvas! for thee I hold my tool - still passionless it quiverethMinding not that my hands are more than apt;My Muse,Where is hiddenThe blue-hued arch'neath the High Heaven's rich emblazonryThe flowery meadow, embrac'd by the horizon -snowflaked and aery mountains,In which the barebreasted maidens dance to the lay o'midsummer,Aloft the distant lazy flapping of the doves in vaingfore. O Canvas! wherefore canst thou these images not allow? -I deem a projection of my Theatre they sould be! -Then, I challenge thee the wisdom of naysaying the yearns o'mine -What is this unforeseen that not enjoyneth lightshades to be skillfully painted?The raven sky prey'd on by the snowfill'd, blustery cloudsUnadorned the meadow - hunger driveth the wolf out of the wood,The maidens chained and whipped within a dreary dungeon -And, fo! 'twixt the wizen roses a mossy grave;"The Devil is as Black as He Painteth" -O Canvas! wherefore?...