Prints

I felt that Id a right to song
And sung – but in a timid strain
Of fondness for my native plain
For every thing I felt a love,
The weeds below the birds above
And weeds that bloomed in summers hours
I thought they should be reckoned flowers
They made a garden free for all
And so I loved them great and small… John Clare

FOLLOW ME ON…

Facebook
Twitter
Instagram

SIGNUP FOR MY OCCASSIONAL NEWSLETTER

Privacy Policy…