"And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays;
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear like murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a a stir of might;
An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above it for light,
climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;"...
and that is as far as I got in my memorization of this lovely poem, but I was only 13 years old.
Oh yes, I reworked a face today. I had temporarily lost the spontaneous bold paint stroke while working on a few women's faces and a child.