The Last Impression [poem]

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The Last Impression

In ‘thirty-nine in time of autumn
The second of four children
I was born in a family very rich
They gave me life on a silver dish
Spoiled I was beyond redemption
Spoiled brat I was, what an Impression!

When I became a man one day
They sent me somewhere far away
To teach me to be practical, responsible
And to always make a good Impression
No matter how illogical
But all I wanted was my liberation

Free spirit I was, free spirit I am
I went on to roam the land
Brush and palette in my hand
I joined the Ecole Des Beaux-Arts
A debonair life I lived with passion
But didn’t make such good Impression

As a student at the Ecole
That was where I met them all
With Monet, Bazille, and Renoir
‘Twas the four of us who started it all
Together we hung up our creations
And there we made our first Impression

A pretty lady I admired
Took my hand, with her I sired
One was a girl, the other a boy
In penury there’s not much joy
What few paintings that would sell
Had us living not so well

My family’s fortunes were all lost
When the Franco-Prussian War broke out
Riches no more for the support
Though many a canvas I adorned
What few paintings ever sold
In vain that was my quest for gold

Free spirit I was, free spirit I am
I continued to roam the land
Brush and palette in my hand
In failing health I wasted away
Till it was over, a January day
At Moret-Sur-Loing, a pauper’s grave

I carried the torch of my generation
And made that last Impression
Extinguished, gone ‘fore its fruition
‘Twas in the Salon des Refusés
I too had hung my pieces
When my name was Alfred Sisley