Sunday, July 19, 2015



11x14 Original Oil Painting
With brush and palette knife.

The windy waves mount up and curve and fall,
    And round the rocks the foam blows up like snow,—

    Tho' I am inland far, I hear and know,
For I was born the sea's eternal thrall.

I would that I were there and over me
    The cold insistence of the tide would roll,
    Quenching this burning thing men call the soul,—

Then with the ebbing I should drift and be
    Less than the smallest shell along the shoal,
Less than the sea-gulls calling to the sea.

                                           ~Sara Teasdale

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