-
The Silver Lily and A Garden in Shoreham
The nights have grown cool again, like the nights Of early spring, and quiet again. WillSpeech disturb you? We’reAlone now; we have no reason for silence.Can you see, over the garden-the full moon rises.I won’t see the next full moon. In spring, when the moon rose, it meant Time was endless. Snowdrops Opened and closed,…
-
Samuel Palmer, "Early Morning" (1825), A Tree-Hugger Ahead of His Time
Palmer’s sepias take us deep into the mysterious harmony of the natural world. Animals and humans are often present — note the hyperalert rabbit and half-hidden villagers in the resplendent “Early Morning” — and houses and barns crop up in the distance. But the main character is nature, in its wholeness and divineness, measured out…
-
Over all Hilltops is Peace… Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh…
Over all Hilltops is Peace… Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh…
-
‘The Seventh Seal’
‘The Seventh Seal’
-
The Song on Reaching the Mountain Peak
The Song on Reaching the Mountain Peak
-
Wave Dance by Paul Lee
Wave Dance Sea Wall, Dawlish Charge to the sea wall, slap it hard, roll back with the swell andmerge… Charge to the sea wall, slap it hard, roll back with the swell,meet the next wave charging in, present your crestand make high fives, pass on through back with the swell andmerge… Charge to the sea…
-
The Dance by Divya Mathur
The Dance by Divya Mathur The shimmering moonlightCame down to make illuminateThe dry sand dune Her skirt was made ofSixty raysHer blouse was stitched but withoneAnd her scarf!As if it was dipped intoBlue, red, green, yellow andMyriad bright colours What a tiny waist!What a sweet voice! And as she touched the groundAnd Lo and behold!The…
-
Dance of the Will to Freedom.
“-not only in the rhythm of proportions, but in the rhythm of wills.” -a quote from Tagore, which made me think of creative dance, its beauty and will to freedom. tonight we are going to the Alonzo King Ballet from San Francisco-looks good.
-
Rabindranath Tagore-life a poem.
A few days ago I was book by Tagore. It was old, 1917 and the page edges were ragged and soft as blotting paper but the words were bright as spring flowers. ” From this we find our ideal. Perpetual giving up is the truth of life. The perfection of this is our life’s perfection.…