For years, I watched enviously,
The contented way to be:
Not a painter, but a gentleman –
Of a life I could only dream.
From morning coats and top hats,
Duly parading the square,
Boasting wealth, so grand,
And escorting ladies, fair.
Yet, one in particular stole the air,
The Count Dominique.
Whose red coattails flared,
So unique –
Oh, how I wished his life to be mine!
Every week, I painted him afar,
A pillar beneath the sky,
And amidst the fruits of the market,
One could never suspect his guise,
Dressed in a royalty of scarlet,
How would it have ever been his eyes?
Well, one day, he came to my stall,
And held my paintings high,
Twisting them about the sunlight,
With eyelids squinting tight –
I sat nervously as he cried,
“If only I could see the beauty that be,
my wears, you paint, are lost on me.
To be blind of colour is a life most bare,
and one I would gladly trade to sit your chair.”
– Leighton Webber
