I never heard
Of any true affection, but ’twas nipt
With care, that, like the caterpillar, eats
The leaves of the spring’s sweetest book, the rose.
I have a rose for every tender new dream.
She comes not when Noon is on the roses —
Too bright is Day.
She comes not to the Soul till it reposes
From work and play.
But when Night is on the hills, and the great Voices
Roll in from Sea,
By starlight and by candlelight and dreamlight
She comes to me.
by Herbert Trench
The sweet fragrance of last night lingers…
There is nothing more difficult for a truly creative painter than to paint a rose, because before he can do so he has first to forget all the roses that were ever painted. – Henri Matisse
My daughters were very adept at making Lego sculptures. One spray-painted her masterpiece in gold and this vase from Copenhagen reminds me of that creation.