Art Nouveau Painting by Louis Rhead
28 november 2010
Once I spoke the language of the flowers,
Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,
Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,
And shared a conversation with
the housefly in my bed.
Once I heard and answered
all the questions of the crickets,
And joined the crying of each
falling dying flake of snow,
Once I spoke the language of the flowers… .
How did it go?
How did it go?
by Shel Silverstein
Art by Florence Mary Anderson
27 november 2010
26 november 2010
25 november 2010
24 november 2010
Christopher 'Kit' Williams
born April 28, 1946 in Kent, England
is an English artist, illustrator and author best
known for his book Masquerade, a pictorial
storybook which contains clues to the location
of a golden (18 carat) jewelled hare
created by Williams and then buried
"somewhere in Britain."
Without a city there is a house
That's made entirely of wood,
Where live ten thousand daughters
That work for a common good.
One mother hath these daughters
And on her wedding day,
She became a widow
And royal sisters did she slay
Williams wrote another puzzle book with a bee theme;
the puzzle was to figure out the title of the book
and represent it without using the written word.
This competition ran for just a year and a day and
the winner was revealed on the live BBC TV
23 november 2010
“ All children, except one, grow up.
They soon know that they will grow up, and the way
Wendy knew was this. One day when she was
two years old she was playing in a garden, and she plucked
another flower and ran with it to her mother.
I suppose she must have looked rather delightful,
for Mrs Darling put her hand to her heart and cried,
‘Oh, why can’t you remain like this for ever!’
This was all that passed between them on the subject,
but henceforth Wendy knew that she must grow up.
You always know after you are two.
Two is the beginning of the end.
by J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan
22 november 2010
21 november 2010
I want to see the land through this stone
I want to see with true–sight
Underneath my eyelids
Can you speak me the curves of that hill?
The colours of that breeze?
Everything between the spectrum?
Can you paint me the songs in that flame?
The hidden water lines?
Everything heard and felt?
The land can teach these placenames
Sing the songs
Paint the pictures
Write the poems
The land can speak
And I can listen.
by Oliver Hunter
Art by Edward Robert Hughes, circa 1895
19 november 2010
17 november 2010
16 november 2010
15 november 2010
14 november 2010
Art by John Simmonds
Some to the Sun their Insect-Wings unfold,
Waft on the Breeze, or sink in Clouds of Gold.
Transparent Forms, too fine for mortal Sight,
Their fluid Bodies half dissolv'd in Light.
Loose to the Wind their airy Garments flew,
Thin glitt'ring Textures of the filmy Dew;
Dipt in the richest Tincture of the Skies,
Where Light disports in ever-mingling Dies,
While ev'ry Beam new transient Colours flings,
Colours that change whene'er they wave their Wings.
13 november 2010
born January 19, 1958 in Sacramento, California
"Balance, peace, and joy are the fruit of
a successful life.
It starts with recognizing your talents
and finding ways to serve others by using them."
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