Art is Contemplation

“Art is contemplation.  It is the pleasure of the mind which searches into

nature and which there divines the spirit of which nature herself is animated.”

– Auguste Rodin

New Beginnings

“There are two mistakes one can make along the road to truth…

not going all the way, and not starting.” – Buddha

Dust of Snow

Dust of Snow by Robert Frost

The way a crow

Shook down on me

The dust of snow

From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart

A change of mood

And saved some part

Of a day I had rued.

Peace

“We shall find peace. We shall hear angels,

we shall see the sky sparkling with diamonds.”

– Anton Chekhov

Turquoise Bridge II

“….Nor was I slow to come among them, when the clouds, from their still skirts,

had shaken down on earth the feathery snow, and all was white….”

from “A Winter Piece,” by William Cullen Bryant (1794 – 1878)

Turquoise Bridge

“A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul.” – Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

First Snowfall

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
arrives the snow….

from The Snow Storm by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Wallace Stevens… “The Snowman”

The Snow Man by Wallace Stevens
One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow; And have been cold a long time To behold the junipers shagged with ice, The spruces rough in the distant glitter Of the January sun; and not to think Of any misery in the sound of the wind, In the sound of a few leaves, Which is the sound of the land Full of the same wind That is blowing in the same bare place For the listener, who listens in the snow, And, nothing himself, beholds Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

A little Frost…

A Patch of Old Snow (a poem by Robert Frost)

There’s a patch of old snow in a corner     That I should have guessed   Was a blow-away paper the rain   Had brought to rest.   It is speckled with grime as if            Small print overspread it, The news of a day I’ve forgotten—   If I ever read it.

January Snow