And amidst the onrushing crowd of revelers and passerby's, he sat there, in a world of his own, surrounded by his art. Tireless fingers, stroking fresh paint over new canvas, day and night. How many he sells, I do not know. But he sits there, under the scorching sun, day after day, head bowed, a sheaf before him, pictures, screaming out words, as the world passes him by. Is this passion? Is this perseverance? Is this the will to follow a dream?
Ah! what is not a dream by day To him whose eyes are cast On things around him with a ray Turned back upon the past?