With scented dew still wet

A single flow’r he sent me, since we met.
All tenderly his messenger he chose;
Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet—
One perfect rose.
~ Dorothy Parker

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Photo by Richard Fogg

Leaving in the water

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Photo by Richard Fogg

Mallards
leaving in the water
rippled sky
~ Penny Harter

 

Wild Geese

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Photo by Richard Fogg

High through the drenched and hollow night their wings
Beat northward hard on winter’s trail. The sound
Of their confused and solemn voices, borne
Athwart the dark to their long arctic morn,
Comes with a sanction and an awe profound,
A boding of unknown, foreshadowed things.
~ Charles G. D. Roberts.

 

Come and marvel at the sunset!

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Photo by Richard Fogg

Come and marvel at the sunset!
Lo—a storm is brooding near,—
All the thirsty world imploring,
In a mood akin to fear.

Like a beaker in her fingers
Holds the world the valley high,
Mountain-lipped and cañon-hearted,
To the largess of the sky.
~ Ruby Archer.

The water has no mind

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Photo by Richard Fogg

The wild geese do not intend
to cast their reflection.
The water has no mind
to receive their image.
~ Zenrin Kushu.

 

Joy of silence or sound

Meadow

Photo by Richard Fogg

Pleasures lie thickest where no pleasures seem:
There’s not a leaf that falls upon the ground
But holds some joy of silence or of sound,
Some spirits begotten of a summer dream.
~ Laman Blanchard.

Flood the skies

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Photo by Richard Fogg

 

Darker—still darker! the whirlwinds bear
The dust of the plains to the middle air:
And hark to the crashing, long and loud,
Of the chariot of God in the thunder-cloud!
You may trace its path by the flashes that start
From the rapid wheels where’er they dart,
As the fire-bolts leap to the world below,
And flood the skies with a lurid glow.
~ William Cullen Bryant.

From the eyes of the angels

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Photo by Richard Fogg

Come and look,
See those dewdrops,
Dripping from that silver thread?
See it glisten,
How they sparkle.
Those come from the eyes of the angels…
~ Staytom.

 

Blue Iris

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Photo by Richard Fogg

 

“What’s that you’re doing?” whispers the wind, pausing
in a heap just outside the window.

Give me a little time, I say back to its staring, silver face.
It doesn’t happen all of a sudden, you know.

“Doesn’t it?” says the wind, and breaks open,
releasing distillation of blue iris.

And my heart panics not to be, as I long to be,
the empty, waiting, pure, speechless receptacle.

~ Mary Oliver.

 

At Dawn

 

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Photo by Richard Fogg

Are not the forest fringes wet
With tears? Is not the voice of all regret
Breaking out of the dark earth’s heart?
She too, she too, has loved and lost; and though
She turned last night in disdain
Away from the sunset-embers,
From her soul she can never depart;
She can never depart from her pain.
Vainly she strives to forget;
Beautiful in her woe,
She awakes in the dawn and remembers.

~ Alfred Noyes