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Poem by Amy Lowell


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.



Amy Lowell


Amy Lowell's other poems:
  1. The Fool Errant
  2. The Boston Athenaeum
  3. Frankincense and Myrrh
  4. The Bungler
  5. To Elizabeth Ward Perkins


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