the sea & the hills

as we continue packing and preparing for our upcoming vacation, I find myself daydreaming about crystalline waters, an escape from reality and watching the sun set over the sea while lying in my lover's arms.  our vacation last summer was to bar harbor, maine and we had a lovely time.  I'd adore going back one day.  so since my brain is stuck in vacation mode + beach mode, here's a photo from last year's vacation.  we woke one morning around 4 or so to watch the sun rise from cadillac mountain - the highest peak on the ocean on the eastern coast.  it was breathtakingly serene and an experience I'd never trade for anything, even if it meant waking at the most ungodly hour of day.  needless to say, I'm looking forward to some beautiful sunrises over the caribbean.

Who hath desired the Sea? — the sight of salt water unbounded –
The heave and the halt and the hurl and the crash of the comber wind-hounded?
The sleek-barrelled swell before storm, grey, foamless, enormous, and growing –
Stark calm on the lap of the Line or the crazy-eyed hurricane blowing –
His Sea in no showing the same his Sea and the same ‘neath each showing:
His Sea as she slackens or thrills?
So and no otherwise — so and no otherwise — hillmen desire their Hills!

Who hath desired the Sea? — the immense and contemptuous surges?
The shudder, the stumble, the swerve, as the star-stabbing bow-sprit emerges?
The orderly clouds of the Trades, the ridged, roaring sapphire thereunder –
Unheralded cliff-haunting flaws and the headsail’s low-volleying thunder –
His Sea in no wonder the same his Sea and the same through each wonder:
His Sea as she rages or stills?
So and no otherwise — so and no otherwise — hillmen desire their Hills.

Who hath desired the Sea? Her menaces swift as her mercies?
The in-rolling walls of the fog and the silver-winged breeze that disperses?
The unstable mined berg going South and the calvings and groans that declare it –
White water half-guessed overside and the moon breaking timely to bare it –
His Sea as his fathers have dared — his Sea as his children shall dare it:
His Sea as she serves him or kills?
So and no otherwise — so and no otherwise — hillmen desire their Hills.

Who hath desired the Sea? Her excellent loneliness rather
Than forecourts of kings, and her outermost pits than the streets where men gather
Inland, among dust, under trees — inland where the slayer may slay him –
Inland, out of reach of her arms, and the bosom whereon he must lay him
His Sea from the first that betrayed — at the last that shall never betray him:
His Sea that his being fulfils?
So and no otherwise — so and no otherwise — hillmen desire their Hills.

-Rudyard Kipling

the above photograph was taken by Victoria Starr, please do not use without permission

these are the days when Birds come back -

I went riding today, as I do most Saturdays.  The sun was shining, and early morning dew was still clinging to every inch of the earth when I got to the barn.  JR and I went for a nice, hour-long ride through the swamps and as I sat, I marveled over the beauty of the world around me.  Surrounded by red-winged blackbirds and mockingbirds and Canadian geese and their goslings, I couldn't help but wish I had brought my camera.  But the images will forever linger in my brain, because today was a day of truest perfection. 

(the below photo was taken the last time I rode JR, which was another beautiful morning as well; as I stated, I didn't think to bring my camera today so...)

 

These are the days when Birds come back --

A very few -- a Bird or two --

To take a backward look.

These are the days when skies resume

The old -- old sophistries of June --

A blue and gold mistake.

Oh fraud that cannot cheat the Bee --

Almost thy plausibility

Induces my belief.

Till ranks of seeds their witness bear --

And softly thro' the altered air

Hurries a timid leaf.

Oh Sacrament of summer days,

Oh Last Communion in the Haze --

Permit a child to join.

Thy sacred emblems to partake --

They consecrated bread to take

And thine immortal wine!

-Emily Dickenson

photo taken by my husband, Christopher.  please do not use without permission.

a sunset -

I love the evenings, passionless and fair, I love the evens,
Whether old manor-fronts their ray with golden fulgence leavens,
In numerous leafage bosomed close;
Whether the mist in reefs of fire extend its reaches sheer,
Or a hundred sunbeams splinter in an azure atmosphere
On cloudy archipelagos.


Oh, gaze ye on the firmament! a hundred clouds in motion,
Up-piled in the immense sublime beneath the winds' commotion,
Their unimagined shapes accord:
Under their waves at intervals flame a pale levin through,
As if some giant of the air amid the vapors drew
A sudden elemental sword.


The sun at bay with splendid thrusts still keeps the sullen fold;
And momently at distance sets, as a cupola of gold,
The thatched roof of a cot a-glance;
Or on the blurred horizon joins his battle with the haze;
Or pools the blooming fields about with inter-isolate blaze,
Great moveless meres of radiance.


Then mark you how there hangs athwart the firmament's swept track,
Yonder a mighty crocodile with vast irradiant back,
A triple row of pointed teeth?
Under its burnished belly slips a ray of eventide,
The flickerings of a hundred glowing clouds in tenebrous side
With scales of golden mail ensheathe.


Then mounts a palace, then the air vibrates--the vision flees.
Confounded to its base, the fearful cloudy edifice
Ruins immense in mounded wrack;
Afar the fragments strew the sky, and each envermeiled cone
Hangeth, peak downward, overhead, like mountains overthrown
When the earthquake heaves its hugy back.


These vapors, with their leaden, golden, iron, bronzèd glows,
Where the hurricane, the waterspout, thunder, and hell repose,
Muttering hoarse dreams of destined harms,--
'Tis God who hangs their multitude amid the skiey deep,
As a warrior that suspendeth from the roof-tree of his keep
His dreadful and resounding arms!


All vanishes! The Sun, from topmost heaven precipitated,
Like a globe of iron which is tossed back fiery red
Into the furnace stirred to fume,
Shocking the cloudy surges, plashed from its impetuous ire,
Even to the zenith spattereth in a flecking scud of fire
The vaporous and inflamèd spaume.


O contemplate the heavens! Whenas the vein-drawn day dies pale,
In every season, every place, gaze through their every veil?
With love that has not speech for need!
Beneath their solemn beauty is a mystery infinite:
If winter hue them like a pall, or if the summer night
Fantasy them starre brede. 

-Victor Hugo


photograph taken by Victoria Starr, owner of this blog; please do not use without permission.

a prayer in spring;

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.


Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.


And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.


For this is love and nothing else is love,
To which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends he will,
But which it only needs that we fulfill.


-Robert Frost




photograph taken by Victoria Starr, owner of this blog; please do not use without permission.