This blog is dedicated to all things simple, old, serene, classical, and romantic. It is an attempt to recapture the simplicity of days gone by, when happiness could be found in simply lying in the grass and writing poetry. In honor of the years that came before us, and in hope of reclaiming a bit of their simplicity, I dedicate "That We Were Butterflies." WELCOME!


"Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music - do I wake or sleep?"
~ John Keats

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

Hope Is A Thing With Feathers ...

I never cared for the beloved poem Hope by Emily Dickinson, although she is a favored poet of mine. I think her words fit for these two images, though; one is a tragic reminder that death is all-too-real while the other is a tender display of bonding between two doves.
... these are all words that come to mind when I think of being alive.

What does being alive mean to you?

A Solitary Farewell


Soulmates, Free To Fly


Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

~Emily Dickinson~

*Special thanks to the artist BERNS on for use of her beautiful photograph Up On The Roof. You can browse Berns' gallery here: