Spirits of Dawn And Majestic Heights

Posted by AdminJPN on March 2, 2021

We return to the beauty of the mountains from the seaside to enjoy the majesty of heights and quietness of special places. Morning walks are best here where beauty, poetry and restful hearts, minds and bodies enjoy a refreshing for busy days ahead. Walk with us…

JayJacy Photography
O SWIFT forerunners, rosy with the race!
Spirits of dawn, divinely manifest
Behind your blushing banners in the sky,
Daring invaders of Night’s tenting-ground,—
How do ye strain on forward-bending foot,
Each to be first in heralding of joy!

With silence sandalled, so they weave their way,
And so they stand, with silence panoplied,
Chanting, through mystic symbollings of flame,
Their solemn invocation to the light.

Too still for dreaming, too divine for sleep,
So range the firs, the constant, fearless ones.
Warders of mountain secrets, there they wait,
Each with his cloak about him, breathless, calm.
And yet expectant, as who knows the dawn…

But lo! the east,—let none forget the east,
Pathway ordained of old where He should tread.
Through some sweet magic common in the skies,
The rosy banners are with saffron tinct;
The saffron grows to gold, the gold is fire,
And led by silence more majestical
Than clash of conquering arms, He comes! He comes!
He holds His spear benignant, sceptrewise,
And strikes out flame from the adoring hills.

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Excerpts from Sunrise on Mansfield Mountain by
Alice Brown (1878-1962)
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Photography: Copyright, JayJacy Photography for @HDRCHIC ©2016-21 All Rights Reserved- No Reblogs Please. Thank you.

An Infrared Winter’s Tale

Posted by AdminJPN on January 15, 2019

YESTERDAY the fields were only grey with scattered snow,
And now the longest grass-leaves hardly emerge;
Yet her deep footsteps mark the snow, and go
On towards the pines at the hills’ white verge.

I cannot see her, since the mist’s white scarf
Obscures the dark wood and the dull orange sky;
But she’s waiting, I know, impatient and cold, half
Sobs struggling into her frosty sigh.

Why does she come so promptly, when she must know
That she’s only the nearer to the inevitable farewell;
The hill is steep, on the snow my steps are slow—

Why does she come, when she knows what I have to tell?

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D.H. Lawrence, Amores. 1916

Photography: Copyright, JayJacy Photography ©2013-2019 All Rights Reserved
No Reblogs Please. Thanks