a pause victorious

for the love of images

[apausevictorious]

Sonnet 116 by William Shakespeare

Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. O no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wand'ring bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me prov'd, I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.

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Raspberry, April, 2019 by Nadia Brent

There’s something so beautiful about a berry. It’s such a simple thing, if you can call it a thing, and yet so wealthy in its form.

Photograph copyright © 2019 Nadia Brent. All Rights Reserved.   

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Fame is a bee. (1788) By Emily Dickinson

Fame is a bee. It has a song— It has a sting— Ah, too, it has a wing.

Photograph copyright © 2018 Nadia Brent. All Rights Reserved.                                     

[apausevictorious]

Reluctance by Robert Frost

Out through the fields and the woods   And over the walls I have wended; I have climbed the hills of view   And looked at the world, and descended; I have come by the highway home,   And lo, it is ended. The leaves are all dead on the ground,   Save those that the oak is keeping To ravel them one by one   And let them go scraping and creeping Out over the crusted snow,   When others are sleeping. And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,   No longer blown hither and thither; The last lone aster is gone;   The flowers of the witch hazel wither; The heart is still aching to seek,   But the feet question ‘Whither?’ Ah, when to the heart of man   Was it ever less than a treason To go with the drift of things,   To yield with a grace to reason, And bow and accept the end   Of a love or a season?

[laclefdescoeurs]

Henry James, 1862, John La Farge

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Time does not bring relief; you all have lied

Sonnet II: “Time does not bring relief; you all have lied” Time does not bring relief; you all have lied Who told me time would ease me of my pain! I miss him in the weeping of the rain; I want him at the shrinking of the tide; The old snows melt from every mountain-side, And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane; But last year's bitter loving must remain Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide!

There are a hundred places where I fear To go, -- so with his memory they brim! And entering with relief some quiet place Where never fell his foot or shone his face I say, "There is no memory of him here!" And so stand stricken, so remembering him! By Edna St. Vincent Millay (She won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry)