Grass Withers and Flowers Fall

 

A voice says, "Cry out."  And I said, "What shall I cry?"  "All people are like grass, and all their faithfulness is like the flowers of the field.  The grass withers and the flowers fall, because the breath of the Lord blows on them.  Surely the people are grass.  The grass withers and the flowers fall, but the word of our God endures forever."  

~Isaiah 40:6-8 NIV

Seasons of Life

 There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens.

~Ecclesiastes 3:1 NIV

A Well-watered Garden

 

The Lord will guide you always;

he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land

and will strengthen your frame.

You will be like a well-watered garden
like a spring whose waters never fail.

Isaiah 58:11 NIV

Patience Taught by Nature

 
 Patience Taught By Nature

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning

'O DREARY life,' we cry, ' O dreary life ! '

And still the generations of the birds
Sing through our sighing, and the flocks and herds
Serenely live while we are keeping strife
With Heaven's true purpose in us, as a knife
Against which we may struggle ! Ocean girds
Unslackened the dry land, savannah-swards
Unweary sweep, hills watch unworn, and rife
Meek leaves drop year]y from the forest-trees
To show, above, the unwasted stars that pass
In their old glory: O thou God of old,
Grant me some smaller grace than comes to these !--
But so much patience as a blade of grass
Grows by, contented through the heat and cold.     

"With Beauty before Me, May I Walk"

Beauty from a walk, simple and serene, a restful mindful beauty.

"With beauty before me, may I walk
With beauty behind me, may I walk
With beauty above me, may I walk
With beauty below me, may I walk
Wandering on the trail of beauty, may I walk"

Navajo:  Walking Meditation

Strolling the Paths of Washington Oaks

A Sea Life Morning

 

There was a hurricane in the Atlantic that hit Bermuda over the weekend.  The beaches were swarming with sea birds.  The population of birds was more then normal.  Dolphins were swimming in Matazanas River at Washington Oaks.  I sit and watch them for a few minutes.

Early Morning Sunlight Washington Oaks Park

Early morning sunlight just made the gardens glisten with a golden glow.  These photos were taken on Saturday morning.  

Washington Oaks in the Shadows

  

I seldom take pictures in black and white but it is a form of photography that is considered very beautiful and where a photographer can be very creative. It has a purity of expression with many shades from darkness to light.  I particularly like trees with various sizes and bold shapes.  The reflections of light in the water is opaque and luminous. These photos were taken at Washington Oaks State Park during a walk.

Artisan Trail

The Artisan Trail at Princess Preserve starts along Pellicer Creek and winds through dense woods until you reach the springs.  There is a picnic table on the fishing pier and a kayak group from Marine land made the hike even more interesting watching inexperience people paddle their boats. If it were not so expensive, I would like to do the day long trip with Marine land tour because they get to see dolphins on their adventure.

"A Song to Myself: 35" by Walt Whitman

These pictures were taken at the Washington Oaks State Park and Beach.  It had been raining for 3 days and Matanzas River was high and winds were still strong. 

Song of Myself: 35

By Walt Whitman 1819–1892
 

Would you hear of an old-time sea-fight?

Would you learn who won by the light of the moon and stars?

List to the yarn, as my grandmother’s father the sailor told it to me.

 

Our foe was no skulk in his ship I tell you, (said he,)

His was the surly English pluck, and there is no tougher or truer, and never was, and never will be;

Along the lower’d eve he came horribly raking us.

 

We closed with him, the yards entangled, the cannon touch’d,

My captain lash’d fast with his own hands.

 

We had receiv’d some eighteen pound shots under the water,

On our lower-gun-deck two large pieces had burst at the first fire, killing all around and blowing up overhead.

 

Fighting at sun-down, fighting at dark,

Ten o’clock at night, the full moon well up, our leaks on the gain, and five feet of water reported,

The master-at-arms loosing the prisoners confined in the after-hold to give them a chance for themselves.

 

The transit to and from the magazine is now stopt by the sentinels,

They see so many strange faces they do not know whom to trust.

 

Our frigate takes fire,

The other asks if we demand quarter?

If our colors are struck and the fighting done?

 

Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little captain,

We have not struck, he composedly cries, we have just begun our part of the fighting.

 

Only three guns are in use,

One is directed by the captain himself against the enemy’s mainmast,

Two well serv’d with grape and canister silence his musketry and clear his decks.

 

The tops alone second the fire of this little battery, especially the main-top,

They hold out bravely during the whole of the action.

 

Not a moment’s cease,

The leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire eats toward the powder-magazine.

 

One of the pumps has been shot away, it is generally thought we are sinking.

 

Serene stands the little captain,

He is not hurried, his voice is neither high nor low,

His eyes give more light to us than our battle-lanterns.

 

Toward twelve there in the beams of the moon they surrender to us.

 

Daisy by Francis Thompson

Featuring Poet Francis Thompson (1859-1907) 



Francis Thompson was educated at Owen's College, Manchester. Later he tried all manner of strange ways of earning a living. He was, at various times, assistant in a boot-shop, medical student, collector for a book seller and homeless vagabond; there was a period in his life when he sold matches on the streets of London. He was discovered in terrible poverty (having given up everything except poetry and opium) by the editor of a magazine to which he had sent some verses the year before. Almost immediately thereafter he became famous. His exalted mysticism is seen at its purest in "A Fallen Yew" and "The Hound of Heaven." Coventry Patmore, the distinguished poet of an earlier period, says of the latter poem, which is unfortunately too long to quote, "It is one of the very few great odes of which our language can boast."   Thompson died, after a fragile and spasmodic life, in St. John's Wood in November, 1907. Among Thompson's devotees was the young J.R.R. Tolkien, who purchased a volume of Thompson's works in 1913-1914, and later said that it was an important influence on his own writing.
 

Daisy

 WHERE the thistle lifts a purple crown   
    Six foot out of the turf,             
And the harebell shakes on the windy hill—        
    O breath of the distant surf!—              
              
The hills look over on the South,                      
    And southward dreams the sea;           
And with the sea-breeze hand in hand 
    Came innocence and she.        
               
Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry      
    Red for the gatherer springs;   
Two children did we stray and talk          
    Wise, idle, childish things.        
               
She listened with big-lipped surprise,    
    Breast-deep 'mid flower and spine:     
Her skin was like a grape whose veins     
    Run snow instead of wine.      
               
She knew not those sweet words she spake,     
    Nor knew her own sweet way;              
But there's never a bird, so sweet a song              
    Thronged in whose throat all day.         
               
Oh, there were flowers in Storrington   
    On the turf and on the spray; 
But the sweetest flower on Sussex hills
    Was the Daisy-flower that day!             
               
Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face.      
    She gave me tokens three:— 
A look, a word of her winsome mouth, 
    And a wild raspberry. 
               
A berry red, a guileless look,      
    A still word,—strings of sand!  
And yet they made my wild, wild heart 
    Fly down to her little hand.      
               
For standing artless as the air,   
    And candid as the skies,            
She took the berries with her hand,         
    And the love with her sweet eyes.      
               
The fairest things have fleetest end,      
    Their scent survives their close:             
But the rose's scent is bitterness             
    To him that loved the rose.     
               
She looked a little wistfully,        
    Then went her sunshine way—             
The sea's eye had a mist on it,   
    And the leaves fell from the day.          
               
She went her unremembering way,       
    She went and left in me            
The pang of all he partings gone,             
    And partings yet to be.              
               
She left me marvelling why my soul       
    Was sad that she was glad;       
At all the sadness in the sweet, 
    The sweetness in the sad.       
               
Still, still I seemed to see her, still            
    Look up with soft replies,         
And take the berries with her hand,         
    And the love with her lovely eyes.       

Nothing begins, and nothing ends,         
    That is not paid with moan,     
For we are born in other's pain, 
    And perish in our own.             

Bella Vista Trail, Washington Oaks State Park

We hiked down the old historic A1A highway that cut across The Bella Vista Trail.  The trail leads you along a white-blazed Timucuan Loop through a shady maritime hammock of red bay, southern magnolia, and cabbage palms. The patchwork of habitats along this 1.8 mile loop, includes coastal scrub and the northernmost extent of mangroves along the fringe of the Matanzas River. There were a lot of colorful leaves that had fallen in December.  Florida's fall is typically in December when the new growth pushes the old leaves. Some trees still had brillant orange leaves.

Rainy afternoon at the Gazebo

It was a rainy afternoon and the grounds were wet but it seem to fit the environment of the pond and surrounding gardens.  Along with the rain was a nice cool breeze so there was tranquility in the air.  I applied a watercolor wash with angle brush strokes to this photo. The sun was coming out from behind the clouds and cast a bright light through the tree branches.

Drift Wood at Matanzas River

 The Matanzas River supports an extensive tidal marsh habitat. There is a lot of old drift wood along the shoreline. Natural artistic structures of nature that can only be observed in its natural habitat.  After a rain fall in Washington Oaks State Park.  Applied a watercolor technique to both photos.