Watercolor.

"And the children are culling on every side, in a thousand valleys far and wide, fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, and the babe leaps up on his mother's arm: I hear I hear with joy I hear - but there's a tree; of many one, both of them speak of something that is gone: the pansy at my feet doth the same tale repeat: whither is fled the visionary gleam? where is it now, the glory and the dream?" - William Wordsworth