Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Sweet Sweet Spring

The thermostat says its 88° F outside.

Mother nature is exhibiting more mid-summer than spring temperaments.


I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers: Of April, May, of June, and July flowers. I sing of Maypoles, Hock-carts, wassails, wakes, Of bridegrooms, brides, and of their bridal cakes
- Robert Herrick 

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough
-Alfred Edward Housman

Sweet Spring, full of sweet dayes and roses, 
A box where sweets compacted lie, 
My musick shows ye have your closes, And all must die 
- George Herbert

The beauteous eyes of the spring's fair night With comfort are downward gazing
- Heinrich Heine

When Spring unlocks the flowers to paint the laughing soil 
-Bishop Reginald Heber 

The beauteous eyes of the spring's fair night 
With comfort are downward gazing
- Heinreich Heine

The spring's already at the gate 
With looks my care beguiling; 
The country round appeareth straight 
A flower-garden smiling
- Heinrech Heine
April is the cruelest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain
- T S Eliot
A little Madness in the Spring Is wholesome even for the King
- Emily Dickinson

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Her Eyes are Wild

Her Eyes are Wild
by William Wordsworth
HER eyes are wild, her head is bare,
          The sun has burnt her coal-black hair;
          Her eyebrows have a rusty stain,
          And she came far from over the main.
          She has a baby on her arm,
          Or else she were alone:
          And underneath the hay-stack warm,
          And on the greenwood stone,
          She talked and sung the woods among,
          And it was in the English tongue.


          "Sweet babe! they say that I am mad,
          But nay, my heart is far too glad;
          And I am happy when I sing
          Full many a sad and doleful thing:
          Then, lovely baby, do not fear!
          I pray thee have no fear of me;
          But safe as in a cradle, here,
          My lovely baby! thou shalt be:
          To thee I know too much I owe;
          I cannot work thee any woe.


          "A fire was once within my brain;
          And in my head a dull, dull pain;
          And fiendish faces, one, two, three,
          Hung at my breast, and pulled at me;
          But then there came a sight of joy;
          It came at once to do me good;
          I waked, and saw my little boy,
          My little boy of flesh and blood;
          Oh joy for me that sight to see!
          For he was here, and only he.


          "Suck, little babe, oh suck again!
          It cools my blood; it cools my brain;
          Thy lips I feel them, baby! they
          Draw from my heart the pain away.
          Oh! press me with thy little hand;
          It loosens something at my chest;
          About that tight and deadly band
          I feel thy little fingers prest.
          The breeze I see is in the tree:
          It comes to cool my babe and me.


          "Oh! love me, love me, little boy!
          Thou art thy mother's only joy;
          And do not dread the waves below,
          When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go;
          The high crag cannot work me harm,
          Nor leaping torrents when they howl;
          The babe I carry on my arm,
          He saves for me my precious soul;
          Then happy lie; for blest am I;
          Without me my sweet babe would die.


          "Then do not fear, my boy! for thee
          Bold as a lion will I be;
          And I will always be thy guide,
          Through hollow snows and rivers wide.
          I'll build an Indian bower; I know
          The leaves that make the softest bed:
          And, if from me thou wilt not go,
          But still be true till I am dead,
          My pretty thing! then thou shalt sing
          As merry as the birds in spring.


          "Thy father cares not for my breast,
          'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest;
          'Tis all thine own!--and, if its hue
          Be changed, that was so fair to view,
          'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove!
          My beauty, little child, is flown,
          But thou wilt live with me in love,
          And what if my poor cheek be brown?
          'Tis well for me, thou canst not see
          How pale and wan it else would be.


          "Dread not their taunts, my little Life;
          I am thy father's wedded wife;
          And underneath the spreading tree
          We two will live in honesty.
          If his sweet boy he could forsake,
          With me he never would have stayed:
          From him no harm my babe can take;
          But he, poor man! is wretched made;
          And every day we two will pray
          For him that's gone and far away.


          "I'll teach my boy the sweetest things:
          I'll teach him how the owlet sings.
          My little babe! thy lips are still,
          And thou hast almost sucked thy fill.
          --Where art thou gone, my own dear child?
          What wicked looks are those I see?
          Alas! alas! that look so wild,
          It never, never came from me:
          If thou art mad, my pretty lad,
          Then I must be for ever sad.


          "Oh! smile on me, my little lamb!
          For I thy own dear mother am:
          My love for thee has well been tried:
          I've sought thy father far and wide.
          I know the poisons of the shade;
          I know the earth-nuts fit for food:
          Then, pretty dear, be not afraid:
          We'll find thy father in the wood.
          Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away!
          And there, my babe, we'll live for aye.

Monday, March 29, 2010

The Transition

Matisse's vibrant colors are wonderfully energizing during this awkward transition period where spring alternates between warm showers and overcast heavens.

Spring is a romantic season with its vibrantly bursting blooms and passionately imploding nimbus clouds. The color green washes across tree tops, kindly inviting birds to perch for repose. 

The Plum Blossoms

Still Life with Geraniums

Le Rifain Assis

The Window at Tangier

 The Conversation

 The Dessert :Harmony in Red

 The Dance

Sunday, March 28, 2010

A Late Winter Slumber

Its March but a cold snap has torn asunder through the spring weather. With cold damp mornings and evenings, it still feels like winter this weekend.

Romance and slumber go hand in hand. 
Further extrapolation would be redundant.

Monday, March 22, 2010


Such a passionate dance.
The dancer, the singer, the guitar..
all are required to weigh in with their respective bounty of frenzied indignation.

Saturday, March 20, 2010

Love Letters

Sometimes the words in a letter don't even have to be romantic, when the writing is this beautiful


Sunday, March 14, 2010


Veils are devastatingly romantic. They fabricate a faux distance between the two faces on either side without completely obscuring the beauty to be beheld. One is beckoned closer to truly determine what the eyes behind the veil betray about the woman.