“The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. –Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.”
Last night my mom showed me this poem and told me it is her heart. Then she cut a bouquet of roses for me from her arbor in the windy dark as petals fell all around us and sent their scent out to the sea.
I wanted to capture it, but this painting is what came out instead. It’s a good thing I have all the time in the world to keep trying and keep seeing and keep listening for wreathed horns.