Andy Warhol Marilyn painting

Tyltyl. And, as they walked along, the Children gathered a beautiful white nosegay. The dear little things did not know that every pansy (which means "a thought") that they picked brought them nearer to their grandparents; and they soon saw before them a large oak with a notice-board nailed to it.
"Here we are!" cried the boy in triumph, as, climbing up on a root, he read:
"The Land of Memory."
And, sure enough, the mist parted before their eyes, like veils torn by an invisible hand; the big trees faded away, everything vanished and, instead, there appeared a pretty little peasant's cottage, covered with creepers and standing in aflowers and with trees all over fruit. They had arrived; but they turned to every side without seeing a thing: "I can see nothing at all!" whimpered Mytyl. "I'm cold!... I'm tired!… I don't want to travel any more!" Tyltyl, who was wholly wrapped up in his errand, lost his temper: "Come, don't keep on crying just like Water!... You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" he said. "There! Look! Look! The fog is lifting!"