I remember the day Audrey Hepburn died. I was eight years old, and I had never seen my grandmother so distraught. She bunched a tissue against her eyes and her voice broke, as though the face of Audrey was not an image on celluloid, but
I remember the day Audrey Hepburn died. I was eight years old, and I had never seen my grandmother so distraught. She bunched a tissue against her eyes and her voice broke, as though the face of Audrey was not an image on celluloid, but
‘Neath the ice there lies, hidden from my eyes, A brightness now dormant and dimmed. In the deep, cold ground, far from sight and sound, Waits a tulip with scarlet brimmed. Never I hear in the wood dead and drear The life that is raging within The sap in the bough