Anton Murre.... 1924-2012

Anton passed away peacefully on August 22, 2012 at around 12.45am-

"My Life is My Art."

He is constantly and sadly missed by his children....................

Anton Murre lived a full and creative life......... ...................... He applied himself to his art right up until his death and one of his last sketches done while in a hospice included the words: "My Mother" .......... DEATH BE NOT PROUD, THOUGH SOME HAVE CALLED THEE MIGHTY AND POWERFUL......................... ............. Anton was born in Zeeland, Holland, in 1924...... His childhood was very difficult and at times traumatic and his adolescence included the German occupation of Holland...... ............. ............. ............. Wonder............. BY THOMAS TRAHERNE.................. How like an angel came I down! How bright are all things here! When first among his works I did appear O how their glory me did crown! The world resembled his eternity, In which my soul did walk; And ev'ry thing that I did see Did with me talk.................................... The skies in their magnificence, The lively, lovely air; Oh how divine, how soft, how sweet, how fair! The stars did entertain my sense, And all the works of God, so bright and pure, So rich and great did seem, As if they ever must endure In my esteem................................. A native health and innocence Within my bones did grow, And while my God did all his glories show, I felt a vigour in my sense That was all spirit. I within did flow With seas of life, like wine; I nothing in the world did know But 'twas divine.................... .......................... Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe, For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow, Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee. From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee, Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee doe goe, Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie. Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell, And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well, And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then? One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally, And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die...................

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