Spring forward with the clock and finally a break in the wintry weather. Today was 40 degrees and warmer tomorrow. To celebrate the oncoming Easter season I have collaged some vintage images to an artists' panel, applied paint first then ephemera from an 1882 volume. Messages of spring throughout with whimsy and fantasy. An original one of a kind, for sale on my esty page. www.guidoneetsy.etsy.com Please take some time and visit this wonderful site for all things handmade. Happy Spring!
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Friday, March 07, 2008
March
Ah, surly March ! you've come again,
With sleet and snow, and hail and rain;
Cold earth beneath, dark sky above you,
What have you, pray, to make us love you?
No month is half so rough as you,
December winds less harshly blew;
What churlish ways! what storm-tossed tresses!
Your presence every one distresses!
Haste, haste away! We longing wait
To greet fair April at our gate.
Cold earth beneath, dark sky above you,
Surely you've naught to make us love you!
"Ah, see these blossoms!" he replied,
Tossing his hail-torn cloak aside,_
"Though other months have flowers a-many,
Say, are not mine as fair as any?
See, peeping from each dusky fold,
The crocus with its cup of gold;
Violets, snowdrops white and stilly,
Sweeter than any summer lily;
And underneath the old oak-leaves
Her fragrant wreath the arbutus weaves,_
Whatever sky may be above me,
Surely for these all hearts will love me!"
M.M.H. Conway
With sleet and snow, and hail and rain;
Cold earth beneath, dark sky above you,
What have you, pray, to make us love you?
No month is half so rough as you,
December winds less harshly blew;
What churlish ways! what storm-tossed tresses!
Your presence every one distresses!
Haste, haste away! We longing wait
To greet fair April at our gate.
Cold earth beneath, dark sky above you,
Surely you've naught to make us love you!
"Ah, see these blossoms!" he replied,
Tossing his hail-torn cloak aside,_
"Though other months have flowers a-many,
Say, are not mine as fair as any?
See, peeping from each dusky fold,
The crocus with its cup of gold;
Violets, snowdrops white and stilly,
Sweeter than any summer lily;
And underneath the old oak-leaves
Her fragrant wreath the arbutus weaves,_
Whatever sky may be above me,
Surely for these all hearts will love me!"
M.M.H. Conway
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