Love is a canvas furnished by Nature and embroidered by imagination. ~ Voltaire
Photography
Love is a symbol of eternity. It wipes out all sense of time, destroying all memory of a beginning and all fear of an end. – Madame de Stael
The art of art, the glory of expression and the sunshine of the light of letters, is simplicity.
– Walt Whitman
Lost in the forest…
Lost in the forest, I broke off a dark twig
and lifted its whisper to my thirsty lips:
maybe it was the voice of the rain crying,
a cracked bell, or a torn heart.
Something from far off it seemed
deep and secret to me, hidden by the earth,
a shout muffled by huge autumns,
by the moist half-open darkness of the leaves.
Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprig
sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance
climbed up through my conscious mind as if suddenly the roots I had left behind
cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood—
and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent. – Pablo Neruda
“It’s so bizarre, I’m not scared of snakes or spiders. But I’m scared of butterflies. There is something eerie about them. Something weird!” – Nicole Kidman
Vision is the art of seeing what is invisible to others. – Jonathan Swift
“The brave may not live forever, but the cautious do not live at all.” ― Meg Cabot
“The word itself has another color. It’s not a word with any resonance, although the e was once pronounced. There is only the bump now between b and l, the relief at the end, the whew. It hasn’t the sly turn which crimson takes halfway through, yellow’s deceptive jelly, or the rolled-down sound in brown. It hasn’t violet’s rapid sexual shudder or like a rough road the irregularity of ultramarine, the low puddle in mauve like a pancake covered in cream, the disapproving purse to pink, the assertive brevity of red, the whine of green.”
― William H. Gass
Alone
From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
– Edgar Allan Poe
Maverick Mist 