Vincent Van Gogh Poem by Francis Duggan

Supported by his brother Theo through his brief and tragic life
And plagued by mental illness with himself he was in strife
He died in 1890 at thirty seven without a penny to his name
And what use now to him the glory and what use now to him the fame.

The paintings of Vincent Van Gogh the Dutch artist have created many a millionaire
But he died of a self inflicted shotgun wound a poverty stricken mad man doesn't life seem so unfair?
The recognition and adulation for him came all too late
For the dead they cannot hear us when their names we celebrate.

The life story of poor Vincent is a story full of tears
Of his struggles with a mental illness which had affected him for years
He fell in love so many times but all to no avail
And all of his attempts at finding happiness sadly for him did fail.

The true worth of his paintings he would not have realised
For he died a virtual pauper and his talent unrecognized
Yet his works of art are now worth millions and many art critics claim him to be the greatest artist of them all
And his name is always mentioned when the great artists they recall.