Men, Women and Ghosts

The Painter on Silk

   There was a man
   Who made his living
   By painting roses
   Upon silk.

   He sat in an upper chamber
   And painted,
   And the noises of the street
   Meant nothing to him.

   When he heard bugles, and fifes, and drums,
   He thought of red, and yellow, and white roses
   Bursting in the sunshine,
   And smiled as he worked.

   He thought only of roses,
   And silk.
   When he could get no more silk
   He stopped painting
   And only thought
   Of roses.

   The day the conquerors
   Entered the city,
   The old man
   Lay dying.
   He heard the bugles and drums,
   And wished he could paint the roses
   Bursting into sound.