The Painter on Silk
There was a manWho made his livingBy painting rosesUpon silk.
He sat in an upper chamberAnd painted,And the noises of the streetMeant nothing to him.
When he heard bugles, and fifes, and drums,He thought of red, and yellow, and white rosesBursting in the sunshine,And smiled as he worked.
He thought only of roses,And silk.When he could get no more silkHe stopped paintingAnd only thoughtOf roses.
The day the conquerorsEntered the city,The old manLay dying.He heard the bugles and drums,And wished he could paint the rosesBursting into sound.