Starless Night Over the Rhone

For what is left when artist's hands no more
Do grace the canvas that at once they knew,
And turquoise waves of life along the shore
Have faded swift and deeply in their hue
To grey and brown. The artist's brush is dry.
No palate does he have to dip his mind,
No smile will be there to ease a cry
Of real pain in real life unkind
To those of whom who look upon the trade
As glory up above these walls insane.
And we well know it was not hands that made
A Starry Night, but yet we all have slain
A lover's portrait, aiding all the same
An illness that no doctor could erase.
But there upon the canvas is his name,
The doctor's eyes so deep upon his face
Could never find a cure within this world.
As sadly as they come, all things must go,
No field of lilies by the paintbrush swirled,
No starlet night o'er the river's flow,
But only in the eyes of one Van Gogh.