PL Fallin Photography

Friday, December 30, 2016

"Deep In the Forest"

“Deep in the forest a call was sounding, and as often as he heard this call, mysteriously thrilling and luring, he felt compelled to turn his back upon the fire and the beaten earth around it, and to plunge into the forest, and on and on, he knew not where or why; nor did he wonder where or why, the call sounding imperiously, deep in the forest.”
― Jack London, The Call of the Wild

Sunday, December 18, 2016

Mt. Shasta 'Heaven On Earth'

The Snows of Shasta

From The Sisson Mirror, November 5, 1896

By Mary C. Bantz

Across the fields all gray and bare,
The foothills rise in ranks of blue,
And through the shadows here and there,
Are flecks of clearer brighter hue-
The Sunset's glow.
The lower hills in shadow rest,
The higher peer above the gloom,
To where, against her shining crest,
The last beams cast the faintest bloom
On Shasta's snow.
In calmest dignity she stands,
While darkness gathers round her base,
And shadows climb with clutching hands,
And clouds approach in billowing race
As wild winds blow.
The winds will wrestle all the night,
And hurl the clouds against her side;
The storm will beat and spend its might,
In effort strong to quell the pride
Of Shasta's snow.
Yet, in tomorrow's cloudless day,
Her stately head with snowy crown
Will sparkle in the sun's first ray,
And mists will chase the shadows down
To vales below.
Through ages gone the storm has sought
To move, to crush that stately form;
But still she stands and yields to naught,
And gathers whiteness from the storm
For Shasta's snow.
If we, who bear the storms of life,
Could calmly patient wait the day,
Could bear the beat of toil and strife,
And never falter on our way
O'er paths of woe.
The light would come, the sun would rise,
And we would stand all strong and sure,
Eternal sunshine in our eyes,
Our doubts at rest, our souls as pure
As Shasta's snow.

Saturday, December 17, 2016

"The Lighthouse" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Lighthouse

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  The rocky ledge runs far into the sea,
  And on its outer point, some miles away,
The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry,
  A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day.

Even at this distance I can see the tides,
  Upheaving, break unheard along its base,
A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides
  In the white lip and tremor of the face.

And as the evening darkens, lo! how bright,
  Through the deep purple of the twilight air,
Beams forth the sudden radiance of its light
  With strange, unearthly splendor in the glare!

Not one alone; from each projecting cape
  And perilous reef along the ocean's verge,
Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape,
  Holding its lantern o'er the restless surge.

Like the great giant Christopher it stands
  Upon the brink of the tempestuous wave,
Wading far out among the rocks and sands,
  The night-o'ertaken mariner to save.

And the great ships sail outward and return,
  Bending and bowing o'er the billowy swells,
And ever joyful, as they see it burn,
  They wave their silent welcomes and farewells.

They come forth from the darkness, and their sails
  Gleam for a moment only in the blaze,
And eager faces, as the light unveils,
  Gaze at the tower, and vanish while they gaze.

The mariner remembers when a child,
  On his first voyage, he saw it fade and sink;
And when, returning from adventures wild,
  He saw it rise again o'er ocean's brink.

Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same
  Year after year, through all the silent night
Burns on forevermore that quenchless flame,
  Shines on that inextinguishable light!

It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp
  The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace;
It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp,
  And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece.

The startled waves leap over it; the storm
  Smites it with all the scourges of the rain,
And steadily against its solid form
  Press the great shoulders of the hurricane.

The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din
  Of wings and winds and solitary cries,
Blinded and maddened by the light within,
  Dashes himself against the glare, and dies.

A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock,
  Still grasping in his hand the fire of Jove,
It does not hear the cry, nor heed the shock,
  But hails the mariner with words of love.

"Sail on!" it says, "sail on, ye stately ships!
  And with your floating bridge the ocean span;
Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse,
  Be yours to bring man nearer unto man!"

"Do Not Stand at my Grave and Weep"

This is one of my favorite poems. The words creates a wonderful imagery that ones life force does not die but becomes part of the natural world: a thousand winds, sunlight, autumn rain and soft star light.

"Do Not Stand at my Grave and Weep"

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

By Mary Elizabeth Frye 1932