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The Painter's Misery
Sitting by the stream,
I had nothing to dream…
I thought of a crow,
A crow on the withering tree,
I thought of that bygone scene…
Had the paper so pauper,
The pencil that prayed stencil…
Ah the beak, I started,
Oh the peak, frayed…
The perception perambulated…
Hearing the gushing streams,
Seeing the ostler, yonder, away,
Thought again, of the crow…
That sat on the sullen tree,
That, nay, didn’t sway…
The shriveled tree that wouldn’t grow…
But again didn’t draw,
The morbid scene…
Something scurried in my mind…
The pencil started to scratch,
The sketch of the visage…
The visage that I had knew for years,
The visage of my love,
The love that lay in the wooden casket…
