Blue Lake Sunrise

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THE sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields
Are hung, as if with golden shields,
Bright trophies of the sun!
Like a fair sister of the sky,
Unruffled doth the blue lake lie,
The mountains looking on.

And, sooth to say, yon vocal grove,
Albeit uninspired by love,
By love untaught to ring,
May well afford to mortal ear
An impulse more profoundly dear
Than music of the Spring.

For ‘that’ from turbulence and heat
Proceeds, from some uneasy seat
In nature’s struggling frame,
Some region of impatient life:
And jealousy, and quivering strife,
Therein a portion claim.

This, this is holy;–while I hear
These vespers of another year,
This hymn of thanks and praise,
My spirit seems to mount above
The anxieties of human love,
And earth’s precarious days.

But list!–though winter storms be nigh,
Unchecked is that soft harmony:
There lives Who can provide
For all his creatures; and in Him,
Even like the radiant Seraphim,
These choristers confide.
_WilliamWordsworth
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Photography: Art on Canvas, Copyright, JayJacy Photography ©2015 All Rights Reserved
No Reblogs Please. Thank you

Imagination’s Winged Host

To The Clouds – winter snow, amazing night blues of ethereal light makes one’s imagination soar as you photograph the beauty of nature.  Nature is wonderful in itself but given the second eyes of the camera, the tools of the photographer and a sense of creating something different, something speaking, something to admire long after the clouds, snow and time has passed.  Wordsworth says it well…

TO THE CLOUDS

ARMY of Clouds! ye winged Hosts in troops
Ascending from behind the motionless brow
Of that tall rock, as from a hidden world,
Oh whither with such eagerness of speed?
What seek ye, or what shun ye? of the gale
Companions, fear ye to be left behind,
Or racing o’er your blue ethereal field
Contend ye with each other? of the sea
Children, thus post ye over vale and height
To sink upon your’s mother’s lap–and rest?
Or were ye rightlier hailed, when first mine eyes
Beheld in your impetuous march the likeness
Of a wide army pressing on to meet
Or overtake some unknown enemy?–
But your smooth motions suit a peaceful aim;
And Fancy, not less aptly pleased, compares
Your squadrons to an endless flight of birds
Aerial, upon due migration bound
To milder climes; or rather do ye urge
In caravan your hasty pilgrimage
To pause at last on more aspiring heights
Than these, and utter your devotion there
With thunderous voice? Or are ye jubilant,
And would ye, tracking your proud lord the Sun,
Be present at his setting; or the pomp
Of Persian mornings would ye fill, and stand
Poising your splendours high above the heads
Of worshippers kneeling to their up-risen God?
Whence, whence, ye Clouds! this eagerness of speed?
Speak, silent creatures.–They are gone, are fled,
Buried together in yon gloomy mass
That loads the middle heaven; and clear and bright
And vacant doth the region which they thronged
Appear; a calm descent of sky conducting
Down to the unapproachable abyss,
Down to that hidden gulf from which they rose
To vanish–fleet as days and months and years,
Fleet as the generations of mankind,
Power, glory, empire, as the world itself,
The lingering world, when time hath ceased to be.
But the winds roar, shaking the rooted trees,
And see! a bright precursor to a train
Perchance as numerous, overpeers the rock
That sullenly refuses to partake
Of the wild impulse. From a fount of life
Invisible, the long procession moves
Luminous or gloomy, welcome to the vale
Which they are entering, welcome to mine eye
That sees them, to my soul that owns in them,
And in the bosom of the firmament
O’er which they move, wherein they are contained,
A type of her capacious self and all
Her restless progeny.

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William Wordsworth

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Photography: Art on Canvas, Copyright, JayJacy Photography ©2015 All Rights Reserved
No Reblogs Please. Thank you.

Poetry In Motion

Our Art on Canvas Equine Photography series continue with another from our “snow and winter” series.  They are beautiful, elegant and truly “poetry in motion.”

WHEN calm is the night, and the stars shine bright,
The sleigh glides smooth and cheerily;
And mirth and jest abound,
While all is still around,
Save the horses’ trampling sound,
And the horse-bells tinkling merrily.

But when the drifting snow in the traveller’s face shall blow,
And hail is driving drearily,
And the wind is shrill and loud,
Then no sleigh shall stir abroad,
Nor along the beaten road
Shall the horse-bells tinkle merrily.

But to-night the skies are clear, and we have not to fear
That the time should linger wearily;
For good-humor has a charm
Even winter to disarm,
And our cloaks shall wrap us warm,
And the bells shall tinkle merrily.
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“Sleighing Song” by John Shaw

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Photography: Art on Canvas, Copyright, JayJacy Photography ©2015 All Rights Reserved
No Reblogs Please. Thank you.