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. |