Pencils and gouache on A3. Rarely I try to recreate older work that I still hope to bring over to my new Continent someday, and this is one of those times.
From “Into my heart an air that kills…” in A Shropshire Lad, by A. E. Housman, not yet one of the Housman poems from this collection that’s been turned into opera (and expertly sung)—
Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?
That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.
