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One of my favourite places to draw is on long walks through the woods of my local countryside. I always have a little sketchbook and pocket set of paints with me. I came across this poem by Keats today and it reminded me of a local wood where I like to sit an dream away the time painting. It has a babbling brook and a carpet of bluebells in the spring. 
 I've put an extract of Keats poem together with some of my little sketches.  Sit, relax, unwind and let your worries be carried away on the breeze with the sounds of the birds. If that doesn't work a cold gin and tonic usually helps too!

I Stood Tip-Toe Upon A Little Hill - Poem by John Keats


I stood tip-toe upon a little hill, 
The air was cooling, and so very still, 
That the sweet buds which with a modest pride 
Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, 
Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems, 
Had not yet lost those starry diadems 
Caught from the early sobbing of the morn. 
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The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn, 

And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept 
On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept 
A little noiseless noise among the leaves, 
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Born of the very sigh that silence heaves: 
For not the faintest motion could be seen 
Of all the shades that slanted o’er the green. 
There was wide wand’ring for the greediest eye, 
To peer about upon variety; 
Far round the horizon’s crystal air to skim, 
And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim; 
To picture out the quaint, and curious bending 
Of a fresh woodland alley, never ending; 
Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves, 
Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves. 
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I gazed awhile, and felt as light, and free 
As though the fanning wings of Mercury 
Had played upon my heels: I was light-hearted, 
And many pleasures to my vision started; 
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So I straightway began to pluck a posey 
Of luxuries bright, milky, soft and rosy. 

A bush of May flowers with the bees about them; 
Ah, sure no tasteful nook would be without them; 
And let a lush laburnum oversweep them, 
And let long grass grow round the roots to keep them 
Moist, cool and green; and shade the violets, 
That they may bind the moss in leafy nets. 
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A filbert hedge with wildbriar overtwined, 
And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind 
Upon their summer thrones; there too should be 
The frequent chequer of a youngling tree, 
That with a score of light green breth[r]en shoots 
From the quaint mossiness of aged roots: 
Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters 
Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters 
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The spreading blue bells: it may haply mourn 
That such fair clusters should be rudely torn 
From their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly 
By infant hands, left on the path to die...

I hope you enjoyed that 2 minute break!

See more of my sketches and art work at https://steemit.com/@opheliafu