Twilight

Twilight

£120.00Price
Original seascape painting on artboard, frame-mounted.
 
8 x 6 inches
 
Acrylic with palette knife
 
All works come with a Certificate of Authenticity
 
White or natural wood ayous wood float frame, includes hanging tools.
  • Delivery

    United Kingdom only. 

    Free 3 - 5 business day delivery available (please include 5 - 7 day processing time)

    For faster delivery & international rates please contact me.

  • Packaging

    I try to recycle packaging wherever possible, so please don't be alarmed if your painting arrives in unbranded, reused outer-packaging

  • Framing

    I recommend white frames with most of my pieces, but it's completely your choice. 

    Most of my works come unframed, but if you are interested in the frame too, please contact me

  • 'To Autumn' by John Keats (September 1819)

    Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

       Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

    Conspiring with him how to load and bless

       With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

    To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,

       And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

          To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

       With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

    And still more, later flowers for the bees,

    Until they think warm days will never cease,

          For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

     

    Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

       Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

    Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

       Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

    Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,

       Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

          Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:

    And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

       Steady thy laden head across a brook;

       Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,

          Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

     

    Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?

       Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—

    While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

       And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

    Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

       Among the river sallows, borne aloft

          Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

    And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

       Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

       The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;

          And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.