Suzy Sharpe Artist & Illustrator: Poetry? do you see poetry in any of may paintings,or do my paintings/drawings remind you of a poem, or do you write poetry that I could share? if so I would love to hear them...:) I offer you...William Wordsworth The Green Linnet BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest sunshine round me spread Of Spring's unclouded weather, In this sequester'd nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard-seat, And flowers and birds once more to greet, My last year's friends together! One have I mark'd, the happiest guest In all this covert of the blest:— Hail to thee, far above the rest In joy of voice and pinion! Thou, Linnet! in thy green array Presiding spirit here to-day Dost lead the revels of the May; And this is thy dominion. While birds, and butterflies, and flowers, Make all one band of paramours, Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, Art sole in thy employment; A life, a presence like the air, Scattering thy gladness without care, Too blest with any one to pair, Thyself thy own enjoyment. Amid yon tuft of hazel trees That twinkle to the gusty breeze, Behold him perch'd in ecstasies Yet seeming still to hover;— There! where the flutter of his wings Upon his back and body flings Shadows and sunny glimmerings, That cover him all over. My dazzled sight he oft deceives— A brother of the dancing leaves; Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves Pours forth his song in gushes; As if by that exulting strain He mock'd and treated with disdain The voiceless form he chose to feign, While fluttering in the bushes Heron Rises From The Dark, Summer Pond So heavy is the long-necked, long-bodied heron, always it is a surprise when her smoke-colored wings open and she turns from the thick water, from the black sticks of the summer pond, and slowly rises into the air and is gone. Then, not for the first or the last time, I take the deep breath of happiness, and I think how unlikely it is that death is a hole in the ground, how improbable that ascension is not possible, though everything seems so inert, so nailed back into itself-- the muskrat and his lumpy lodge, the turtle, the fallen gate. And especially it is wonderful that the summers are long and the ponds so dark and so many, and therefore it isn't a miracle but the common thing, this decision, this trailing of the long legs in the water, this opening up of the heavy body into a new life: see how the sudden gray-blue sheets of her wings strive toward the wind; see how the clasp of nothing takes her in.