The framed Owl canvas print is formed using quotes about this city with rich history.
Bring this historically rich city to life by adding a bit of city flare to your living space, and adding this to your collection.
MATERIAL
Printed on a high quality 360GSM canvas made from matte cotton
Stretched across a kiln-dried wooden frame with a depth of 1.5"/3cm.
Framed and ready-to-hang.
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Words Used
The words used to form this artwork are:
Owls hoot in B flat, cuckoos in D, but the water ouzel sings in the voice of the stream. She builds her nest back of the waterfalls so the water is a lullaby to the little ones. Must be where they learn it.
When the owl sings, the night is silent.
Owl, said Rabbit shortly, you and I have brains. The others have fluff. If there is any thinking to be done in this Forest, and when I say thinking I mean thinking, you and I must do it.
The inauspiciousness of the owl is nothing but the inauspiciousness of the man who thinks that owl is inauspicious!
Do not trap yourself into an owl's hooting sound where sad nights linger through the blackness of a hound.
The moon seems unaware of night's dark hitting on the damp warm rain misguiding owl's spitting A thunder light of love raising hearts beating while weather learns more
from rain lovers meeting.
The owl, he was saying, is one of the most curious creatures. A bird that stays awake when the rest of the world sleeps. They can see in the dark. I find that so interesting, to be mired in reality when the rest of the world is dreaming. What does he see and what does he know that the rest of the world is missing?
A wise old owl sat on an oak The more he saw the less he spoke The less he spoke the more he heard Why aren’t we like that wise old bird.
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat. They took some honey, and plenty of money, Wrapped up in a five-pound note. The Owl looked up to the Stars above And sang to a small guitar, ‘O lovely Pussy O Pussy, my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are You are What a beautiful Pussy you are.
This tower, patched unevenly with black ivy, arose like a mutilated finger from among the fists of knuckled masonry and pointed blasphemously at heaven. At night the owls made of it an echoing throat; by day it stood voiceless and cast its long shadow.
The Bat that flits at close of Eve Has left the Brain that won’t believe. The Owl that calls upon the night speaks the Unbeliever’s fright.
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