The Island a poem by Josephine Pinckney
Blue House 2. Homage to Alice Ravenel H Smith.
Here, a man still walks after the plow he drives.
Sons these of busier men who sowed success
And reaped it. Then the Earth, old Sorceress
Breathed a warm breath upon their striving lives
And they forgot the hand, the thew that strives,
Forgot the market-towns, and furrowed less
The lanquid streams, learning to acquiesce.
Now youngsters swim there and the wild duck dives
They left the fields on the long afternoons–
Lay under oak-limbs, drooping deep shade brown,
Where the slant sunlight lies as thick and warm
As orange cordial. In the milky moons
Moss pendulums swing in a soft sleep-charm, —
Hypnotic clocks eternally running down.
– from The Carolina Low-Country, 1932, published by The Society for the Preservation of Spirituals
I was called to be an artist. And as an old old midwife said to me "If the Lord wants you to do something, you won't have no good luck' til you do." So, here I am, sharing what I love, longing to illuminate the work of art, which is everywhere.
Charleston Through an Artist's eye 
I had to look up ‘thew’
me too! well…. I got side tracked, but it is a word, right? It IS printed like that. :)
Pinkney, how do you like the new painted on print of a water color? It is big, 16×20. It was fun. Different.