Sabrina Fair

by John Milton

Sabrina fair
Listen where thou art sitting
Under the glassie, cool, translucent wave,
In twisted braids of Lillies knitting
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair,
Listen for dear honour's sake,
Goddess of the silver lake,
Listen and save.

...

Rise, rise, and heave thy rosie head
From thy coral-pav'n bed,
And bridle in thy headlong wave,
Till thou our summons answered have.
Listen and save.

Photo by Courtney Hood

The Forest

When I was little, barely more than a baby, we lived in a house in the woods. It is the first house I actually remember, and just the slightest scent of woodsmoke takes me back there. I can recall the first time I saw it, the way the trees blurred along the roadside as we drove, noticing the flowers and the manzanita trees and the wooden sign painted with rabbits.


I remember the days spent making mud pies while my parents cleared the land for our yard, cutting out weeds and bushes and emptying the litter that had been dumped there, and later, after the clearing was done, our morning walks down the lane, or into the woods, where a little pond hid behind the trees and we found the doors of a rabbit's house.


I wonder if it was that experience that left me so fascinated by forests, why they figure so heavilly in my stories and the landscape of my mind, why I cannot follow the paths in the grass, or watch the sunlight dancing over the bark and leaves, or stare down a dark corridor of trees and not feel that something is waiting there, that at any moment something utterly unearthly might pass across my sight.


Or maybe it was the books I read as a child. So many of the old stories, Greek, Scandinavian, English, Native American, all teem with images of the forest, of ancient trees and lost children, secret paths and woodland spirits. Or maybe it is neither of these, but some near-forgotten primeval memory carried in my blood.


Ancestors of mine came from all over Europe, and all had their tales of the woods. My French trapper great-grandfather lived and hunted in the deepest forests of North America, and the Souix Indians from whom I am descended believed one of the most beautiful sights in the world was the sun coming through the trees.


Or perhaps it is older even than that. Perhaps all humans hold this inborn sense of awe, this communal knowledge, an awareness deeper than instinct, that somewhere in that darkness, beneath those arching branches, there is something alive, some ancient eye watching, some great heart beating, some hidden hand shrouding its secrets behind the mist and dappled sunlight.

#1 by http://www.flickr.com/people/algo/
#2 by http://www.flickr.com/people/45142573@N04/
#3 by http://www.flickr.com/people/uesser/
#4 by http://www.flickr.com/people/nachosan/
#5 by me
#6 by http://www.flickr.com/people/visbeek/
#7 by http://www.flickr.com/people/jpmartineau/

Once upon a time...

As a child Beauty and the Beast was one of my favorite movies. I watched it a thousand times or more.

The West Wing was one of those scenes that, young as I was, seared itself into my heart. Even before I could truly understand its depth, or what it was about it that moved me so much, I was fascinated.

Even now I cannot watch it without trembling inside.

Twelve

It has come to my attention that I now have 12 followers. As a way of saying "thank you", I've decided to post 12 of my favorite black and white photographs! Some are famous, some are relatively obsure, but they're all fantastically beautiful.

The ever-beautiful Mary Pickford.

The Cottingley Fairy Photographs.



Some gorgeous portraits by Cecil Beaton. I love how he makes alumium foil and cellophane look so soft and magical.

The Romanov girls. There isn't a single portrait of them I don't love.

Lovely Lillian Gish.

Marie of Romania. There are so many beautiful portraits of her as a girl and a teenager, but I couldn't find many online.

I took the stars from my eyes and made a map...

I am so desperately in love with this song right now.

And Winter Came

It is unmistakeably winter here

Everything is white. The sky is white, the ground is white, the air is white. All is white except the bare brown branches.

The river behind my house is covered with snow, the overhanging branches glancing over the frozen surface. The woods seem naked and empty without leaves to hide behind. The trees grow blurry with strange winter mist, melting together in the distance. It is so cold now that it hurts to go outside. The fields are empty, choppy stocks of grass rising from the snow. I used to look out over those fields as a child and imagine stories and figures there.

Sometimes I still do.



I know I have been terribly absent here in the last few months and I am sorry. I will try to do better!

In the Weeping Brook

There is a willow grows aslant a brook,
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;
There with fantastic garlands did she come
Of crowflowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples,
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them.
There, on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds
Clamb'ring to hang, an envious sliver broke;
When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide;
And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up;
Which time she chaunted snatches of old tunes;
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indu'd
Unto that element: but long it could not be
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.

Photo by http://weheartit.com/jennamc