PAULUS POTTER
Sombre sorrow of skies habitually grey,
The sadder for being blue during rare intervals of brightness,
And that then let filter upon chilly plains
The lukewarm tears of a misunderstood sun;
Potter, melancholic humour of sombre plains
That stretch endlessly, without joy and without colour,
Bushes nor houses shed no shadow there
Small and meagre gardens yield up no flowers
A ploughman hauls home his pails, and pitifully
His resigned and restless mare from time to time
Inhales in heavy breaths the soft breath of the wind
Then bends her humble and passive head to the thankless sun
Anguished, then soon after humble and pensive.