Pencils and goache 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.
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.