Monday, May 29, 2006

The Wheel

Paul Cezanne (1839-1906), Woods with Millstone, 1898-1900

Through winter-time we call on spring,
And through the spring on summer call,
And when abounding hedges ring
Declare that winter's best of all;
And after that there's nothing good
Because the spring-time has not come -
Nor know that what disturbs our blood
Is but its longing for the tomb.

poem by William Butler Yeats

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