juxtaART has used up it's 2GB photo storage. To continue it's visual journal, juxtaART.the sequel is born. Do check out Part II by clicking on the link (blue text) above.

peace and love.

thank you.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Four Seasons of Love

In Springtime when the leaves are young,
Clear dewdrops gleam like jewels, hung
On boughs the fair birds roost among.

When Summer comes with sweet unrest,
Birds weary of their mother's breast,
And look abroad and leave the nest.

In Autumn ere the waters freeze,
The swallows fly across the seas:
If we could fly away with these!

In Winter when the birds are gone,
The sun himself looks starved and wan,
And starved the snow he shines upon.
- Christina Rossetti (1830 - 1894)

This was supposed to be my 4th anniversary present.. but due to busy schedule, only this year The Artist got the time to produce this masterpiece. So now it's my 5th anniversary present. Yep, 5 years n going strong.. 

It was my request actually.. my 4 fave flower in my 4 fave colour..

When I was one-and-twenty
I heard a wise man say,
'Give crowns and pounds and guineas
But not your heart away;
Give pearls away and rubies
But keep your fancy free.'
But I was one-and-twenty,
No use to talk to me.

When I was one-and-twenty
I heard him say again,
'The heart out of the bosom
Was never given in vain;
'Tis paid with sighs a plenty
And sold for endless rue.'
And I am two-and-twenty,
And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.
- Ae Housman (1859 - 1936)


Four Seasons of Love

Pink spring daffodil

Red summer lily

Purple autumn rose
* I do know that rose is a summer's flower, 
but I just think it would be more romantic in purple..

Blue winter pansy

Four seasons fill the measure of the year;
There are four seasons in the mind of Man:
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with and easy span:

He has his Summer, when luxuriously
Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves

His soul hath in its Autumn, when his wings
He furleth close; contended so to look
On mists in idleness - to let fair things
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook:

He has his winter too pale misfeature,
Or else he would forego his mortal nature
- John Keats (1794 - 1821)

I ne'er was struck before that hour
With love so sudden and so sweet.
Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower
And stole my heart away complete.
My face turned pale as deadly pale,
My legs refused to walk away,
And when she looked 'what could I ail?'
My life and all seemed turned to clay.

And then my blood rushed to my face
And took my sight away,
The trees and bushes round the place
Seemed midnight at noonday.
I could not see a single thing,
Words from my eyes did start;
They spoke as chords do from the string
And blood burnt round my heart.

Are flowers the winter's choice?
Is love's bed always snow?
She seemed to hear my silent voice
And love's appeal to know.
I never saw so sweet a face
As that I stood before:
My heart has left its dwelling-place
And can return no more.
- John Clare (1793 - 1864)
First Love

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed,
And every fair from fair sometimes declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st;
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
- William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616)

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints - I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806 - 1861)

I, singularly moved
To love the lovely that are not beloved,
Of all the seasons, most
Love Winter, and no trace
The sense of Trophonian pallor on her face.
It is not death, but plentitude of peace;
And the dim cloud that does the world enfold
Hath less the characters of dark and cold
Than warmth and light asleep,
And correspondent breathing seems to keep
With the infant harvest, breathing soft below
Its eider coverlet of snow...
- Coventry Patmore (1823 - 1896)
from Winter


juxtaART has used up it's 1GB photo storage. As this blog is a visual diary of juxtaART's journey into the abstract surrealist world of art, hence juxtaART.the sequel is born. All new entries will be uploaded there (click on the blue text above). Please continue to support juxtaART as we are committed in continuing to 'nganga'ing everyone.

peace n love.

thank you.