The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing that stands in the way. Some see nature all ridicule and deformity, and some scarce see nature at all.

But to the eyes of the man of imagination, nature is imagination itself. (William Blake 1757-1827)

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways::
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. (John Keats 1795-1821)

A Stream beneath Poplars (Lilla Cabot Perry 1848-1933)

I can enjoy society in a room, but out-of-doors company is enough for me. (William Hazlitt 1778-1830)

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This video was devised by the pianist Edward Weiss
http://www.quiescencemusic.com



Have you discovered the Poetry Path yet?

http://thepoetrypath.blogspot.com

***The Poetry Path***The Poetry Path***The Poetry Path***

Loveliest of lovely things are they

On earth that soonest pass away.
The rose that lives its little hour
Is prized beyond the sculptured flower.
(William Cullen Bryant)

Thanks to FreeFoto. com

Go pretty rose, go to my fair,
Go tell her all I fain would dare,
Tell her of hope; tell her of spring,
Tell her of all I fain would sing,
Oh! were I like thee, so fair a thing.
(Michael Beverly)

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Here are a few quotations that took my fancy . . . .

A thorn defends the rose, harming only those who would steal the blossom. (Chinese Proverb)

Gather the rose of love whilst yet is time. (Edmund Spenser)

I'd rather have roses on my table than diamonds round my neck. (Emma Goldman)

The fragrance always stays in the hand that gives the rose. (George William Curtis)

Send two dozen roses to Room 424 and put "Emily, I love you" on the back of the bill. (Groucho Marx)

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Robert Burns was born on 25th January 1721, so it seems appropriate to include his best known poem here.

O, my love is like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
My love is like a melody
That's sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonny lass,
So deep in love am I;
And I will love thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only love!
And fare thee weel, awhile!
And I will come again, my love,
Though it were ten thousand mile.

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Thanks to “rulivede” for this short “time lapse” video

My new paintings blog began on Saturday at -
http://johnsgallery.blogspot.com

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This is a story about a monk who was in charge of a Zen Temple garden. He made sure that all the flower beds, bushes and trees were always kept neat and tidy.

He was thrilled to hear that a famous Zen Master, having heard of the beautiful garden, was coming to see it. On the day before the visit the monk worked tirelessly to make sure that everything was in order.

Accompanied by his students, the Master walked round the garden, smiling approval at everything he saw. Finally he walked over to the tree in the centre of the garden, seized hold of it by the trunk and shook it violently. Leaves showered down all over the ground. He turned to the monk and said, “You have a real garden now.”

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"In my garden there is a large place for sentiment. My garden of flowers is also my garden of thoughts and dreams. The thoughts grow as freely as the flowers, and the dreams are as beautiful." (Abram L. Urban)

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Breezes in the long grass ruffling my hair,
Hollyhock and bluebell scenting the air;
Nothing in the world can ever be
Such a sweet memory.
Nothing in the world was ever so fair.

I leave my heart in an English garden,
Safe where the elm and the oak stand by.
Though the years rise and roll away,
Still shall those watchmen stay,
Bold in the blue of an English sky.

I leave my dreams in an English garden,
Safe where the breezes of England blow.
When the highways are dark and drear,
I know there's sunshine here,
Bright where the roses of England grow.
(Christopher Hassall)

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Click to enlarge
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A second series of Pre-Raphaelite paintings has now begun at -
http://myownselection.blogspot.com

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MONDAY 10TH JANUARY

A Village in the Snow (artist unknown)
To enlarge, click on the painting
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Two Thomas Hardy poems with a Christmas flavour . . . .

SEEN BY THE WAITS

Through snowy woods and shady
We went to play a tune
To the lonely manor-lady
By the light of the Christmas moon.

We violed till, upward glancing
To where a mirror leaned,
It showed her airily dancing,
Deeming her movements screened.

Dancing alone in the room there,
Thin-draped in her robe of night;
Her postures, glassed in the gloom there,
Were a strange phantasmal sight.

She had learnt (we heard when homing)
That her roving spouse was dead;
Why she had danced in the gloaming
We thought, but never said.

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CHRISTMASTIDE

The rain-shafts splintered on me
As despondently I strode;
The twilight gloomed upon me
And bleared the blank high-road.
Each bush gave forth, when blown on
By gusts in shower and shower,
A sigh, as it were sown on
In handfuls by a sower.

A cheerful voice called, nigh me,
“A Merry Christmas, friend!”
There rose a figure by me,
Walking with townward trend,
A sodden tramp’s, who, breaking
Into thin song, bore straight
Ahead, direction taking
Toward the Casual’s gate.

The Casual referred to here is a 19th century lodging house where homeless people, if they were lucky, could find accommodation for the night.

This painting “The Casual Ward” by Samuel Luke Fildes shows a group waiting to be admitted.

To enlarge, click on the painting
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Thanks to http://www.dhuting.com for this video taken at the Havasupai Indian Reservation, Arizona



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My new blog THE POETRY PATH is now active at -
http://thepoetrypath.blogspot.com

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