THE STREET ARTIST
He leaned, with all his wares unsold, against the city wall,
Weary and grey, the architect of this strange gallery
Of seascapes and of landscapes that were not of earth at all—
A parody of forests and a skit upon the sea.
Weary and grey, the architect of this strange gallery
Of seascapes and of landscapes that were not of earth at all—
A parody of forests and a skit upon the sea.
Some quickness with the pencil and some ardour for the brush,
Perhaps began his downfall and his hope of a career.
And I thought of brown bees humming in an almond-scented hush,
And I breathed a whiff of woodland—though he reeked of last night's beer.
Perhaps began his downfall and his hope of a career.
And I thought of brown bees humming in an almond-scented hush,
And I breathed a whiff of woodland—though he reeked of last night's beer.
And I thought of tumbling oceans and of pale mists delicate,
And of dewy plains at dawning and of black soil freshly ploughed;
And I wondered why his hand must knock, unheeded, on the gate
Of the visionings of hill-sides and the marvel of a cloud.
And of dewy plains at dawning and of black soil freshly ploughed;
And I wondered why his hand must knock, unheeded, on the gate
Of the visionings of hill-sides and the marvel of a cloud.
