The Painter

Our local painter always seemed afraid
          To go above a certain space in height.
And so our domes and steeples would have stayed
          Unpainted, but each year there would alight

From off some train he’d ridden on the sly,
          A painter tramp who limped and acted queer.
And when he’d slung his ropes against the sky,
          Like some lost voice among the spires, we’d hear

Him singing as he daubed his colors on.
          So thin and clear we caught his every word.
He sang: I am a lark that greets the dawn
          For, captive though it is, my soul’s a bird.

But they who dealt with things, the trading men,
          Bound by the narrow paths of their conceit,
Gibed to hear this wandering harlequin
          Revealing thoughts their minds could never meet.

But one day on a high, unfriendly cope
          He dared the wind . . . and with a vicious laugh,
It whirled his sling and tugged a vital rope.
          The main knot slipped, the song was cut in half.

Who mocked at him contented go their way—
          Prisoners that blindly love their bars—
Firm roots embrace a mangled cage of clay,
          A silver bird sings high among the stars.