Vincent (
Starry Starry Night )
“Van Gogh's
night sky is a field of roiling energy. Below the exploding stars, the village is
a place of quiet order. Connecting earth and sky is the flame like cypress, a
tree traditionally associated with graveyards and mourning. But death was not
ominous for van Gogh. Looking at the stars always makes me dream, he
said, Why, I ask myself, shouldn't the shining dots of the sky be as
accessible as the black dots on the map of
The artist wrote of his
experience to his brother Theo: This
morning I saw the country from my window a long time before sunrise, with
nothing but the morning star, which looked very big. This morning star, or Venus, may be the large white star
just left of center in The
Starry Night. The hamlet, on the
other hand, is invented, and the church spire evokes van Gogh's native land,
the
~ The
Vincent (Starry Starry
Night)
By Don McLean
Starry starry night, paint your palette blue
and grey
Look out on a summer's day
With
eyes that know the darkness in my soul
Shadows on the hills, sketch the trees and the daffodils
Catch the breeze and the winter chills,
In
colors on the snowy linen land
Now I understand what you tried to say to
me
How you suffered for you sanity
How
you tried to set them free
They would not listen they did not know how
Perhaps
they'll listen now
Starry starry night, flaming flowers that brightly
blaze
Swirling clouds in violet haze
Reflect
in Vincent's eyes of china blue
Colors changing hue, morning fields of amber grain
Weathered faces lined in pain
Are
soothed beneath the artist's loving hand
Chorus:
For they could not love you, but still your love was true
And when no hope was left in sight
On
that starry starry night
You took your life as lovers often do,
But I could have told you, Vincent,
This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you
Starry, starry night, portraits hung in empty halls
Frameless heads on nameless walls
With
eyes that watch the world and can't forget
Like the stranger that you've met
The
ragged man in ragged clothes
The silver thorn of bloody rose
Lie
crushed and broken on the virgin snow
Now I think I know what you tried to say to me
How you suffered for you sanity
How
you tried to set them free
They would not listen they're not listening still
Perhaps they never will.
© 1971, Don McLean
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