Banks of the Oise at Auvers, oil on canvas, 1863
Painted by Charles-Francois Daubigny, French, 1817-1878
Depicts Auvers-sur-Oise, Ile-de-France, France, Europe
Currently on display at the St. Louis Art Museum
Available at the following link: https://www.slam.org/collections/objects/49181/
Painted by Charles-Francois Daubigny, French, 1817-1878
Depicts Auvers-sur-Oise, Ile-de-France, France, Europe
Currently on display at the St. Louis Art Museum
Available at the following link: https://www.slam.org/collections/objects/49181/
Banks of the Oise at Auvers
Trees and water—the world—
Never looking to the sky but daring to touch it.
Longing—the breath of clouds concealing sunlight--
Pulses through the pastoral air.
Man and woman—despised—
Rest in red and gray, money slipping through their
Ragged hands of joy. Breathless, they
Count their seconds of tranquility.
Lilies rest above the fishermen’s catch,
Casting shadows over their afternoon amusement.
Men: they search for something they cannot find.
Thin—like an emaciated skeleton—
A beacon stretches up to God, stripped of Foliage
like a beaten traveler bleeding on the road.
White innocence—the color of a gallant stallion--
Emerges like a pinprick from beside the mountains.
He is pursued by those watching his beauty As he
ebbs away into demise.
And they all continue to look for the skies,
But find gray instead of blue in their eyes.
Trees and water—the world—
Never looking to the sky but daring to touch it.
Longing—the breath of clouds concealing sunlight--
Pulses through the pastoral air.
Man and woman—despised—
Rest in red and gray, money slipping through their
Ragged hands of joy. Breathless, they
Count their seconds of tranquility.
Lilies rest above the fishermen’s catch,
Casting shadows over their afternoon amusement.
Men: they search for something they cannot find.
Thin—like an emaciated skeleton—
A beacon stretches up to God, stripped of Foliage
like a beaten traveler bleeding on the road.
White innocence—the color of a gallant stallion--
Emerges like a pinprick from beside the mountains.
He is pursued by those watching his beauty As he
ebbs away into demise.
And they all continue to look for the skies,
But find gray instead of blue in their eyes.
Kate Wexell is a sixteen-year-old writer and poet from the St. Louis Metropolitan Area.