Whan that aprill with his shoures soote
The droghte of march hath perced to the roote,
And drowned every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
And drowned every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
April comes she will. And with it a little sunshine? I continue to hope. For your pleasure: this and this.
photography arranged by this illustrious gentleman for Toast
2 comments:
A Sigur Ros take away show!? Holy Cow! Thanks so much Sophie!
my very great pleasure
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