#yearn ebon ward

[princesstokyom]

i dont know if ill bother makin a new artblog, or if ill bother reuploading my old shit

but here, i had fun doing this

trying to figure out how to have fun drawing again, so have an art study of me drawing yearn ebon ward in noel fielding's artstyle

[violettesiren]

I

Whence come they, small and brown, Miraculous and frail, Like spring's invisible pollen blown On the wild southern gale? From whatsoever depth of gold and blue, Far-templed sand and ringed palms they wing, Falling like dew Upon the land, they bring Music and spring, With all things homely-sweet Exhaled beneath the feet On stony mountain-trail, Or where green slopes, through tamarisk and pine, Seaward decline— Thyme and the lavender, Where honey-bees make stir, And the green dragon-flies with silver whirr Loot the last rosemaries— The morning-glory, rosy as her name, The poppies' leaping flame Along the kindled vines, Down barren banks the vetches spilt like lees, In watery meadows the great celandines Afloat like elfin moons, In the pale world of dunes A foam of asphodel Upon the sea's blue swell, And, where the great rocks valley-ward are rolled, The tasselled ilex-bloom fringing dark woods with gold. Shyly the first begin— And the thrilled ear delays, Through a fresh veil of interblossomed mays Straining to win That soft sequestered note, Where the new throat, In some deep cleft of quietness remote, Its budding bliss essays. Shyly the first begin— But, as the numerous rose First to the hedgerow throws A blossom here and there, As if in hope to win The unheeding glances of the passer-by, And, never catching his dulled eye, Thinks: "But my tryst is with the Spring!" And suddenly the dusty roadside glows With scented glory, crimsoned to its close— So wing by wing, Unheeded and unheard, Bird after bird, They come; And where the woods were dumb, Dumb all the streamsides and unlistening vales, Now glory streams along the evening gales, And all the midday is a murmuring, Now they are come. II I lie among the thyme; The sea is at my feet, And all the air is sweet With the capricious chime Of interwoven notes From those invisible and varying throats, As though the blossomed trees, The laden breeze, The springs within their caves, And even the sleeping waves, Had all begun to sing. Sweet, sweet, oh heavy-sweet As tropic bales undone At a Queen's ebon feet In equatorial sun, Those myriad balmy voices Drip iterated song. And every tiny tawny throat rejoices To mix its separate rapture with the throng. For now the world is theirs, And the captivated airs Carry no other note As from midsummer's throat, Strong-pillared, organ-built, Pours their torrential glory, On their own waves they float, And toss from crest to crest their cockle-shell of story— And, as plumed breakers tilt Against the plangent beaches, And all the long reticulated reaches Hiss with their silver lances, And heave with their deep rustle of retreat At fall of day— So swells, and so withdraws that tidal lay As spring advances. III I lie among the thyme, The sea is at my feet, And the slow-kindling moon begins to climb To her bejewelled seat— And now, and now again, Mixed with her silver rain, Listen, a rarer strain, A tenderer fall— And all the night is white and musical, The forests hold their breath, the sky lies still On every listening hill, And far far out those straining sails, Even as they dip and turn, One moment backward yearn To the rich laughter of the nightingales.

Nightingales in Provence by Edith Wharton