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Your Eyes
Friend
The Kiss of Life
Into My Arms
Moondance
Letter To My Love
Calling out
Christmas Thoughts
She Stands
Misty Morning
Orange Blossoms
SONGS TO MY DAUGHTERS
Ode to DianaWherever Emily Goes*** New Pages***
Never Let You GoAngels EmbraceMeant For MeMan Loves a WomanFeel This WayIfBetween Darkness and DawnMorning SonnetSonnet to Spring WindsEbb and Flow|
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| Wintertime Visions and Thoughts | |
| To My Friends....xoxoxo Love Beth |  |
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  Ansel Adams El Capitan, Winter Yosemite National Park, California ca.1948 Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. Robert Frost  Ansel Adams Gates of the Valley, Winter Yosemite National Park, California ca.1938 I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow  Ansel Adams Pine Branch In Snow Yosemite National Park, California ca.1932 Who can be insensible to the outpourings of good feeling, and the honest interchange of affection- ate attachment, which abound at this season of the year? A Christmas family-party! We know nothing in nature more delightful! There seems a magic in the very name of Christmas. Petty jealousies and discords are forgotten...Kindly hearts that have yearned towards each other, but have been withheld by false notions of pride and self-dignity, are again reunited, and all is kind- ness and benevolence! Would that Christmas lasted the whole year through (as it ought), and that the prejudices and passions which deform our better nature, were never called into action among those to whom they should ever be strangers. Charles Dickens  Ansel Adams Mount Ranier, Sunrise Mount Ranier National Park, Washington ca.1950 Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the wood lands brown and and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow. Even as our cloudy fancies take Suddenly shape in some divine expression, Even as the troubled heart doth make In the white countenance confessions, The troubled sky reveals The grief it feels. This is the poem of the air, Slowly in silent syllables recorded; This is the secret of despair, Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, Now whispered and revealed To wood and field. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Christmas has come, let's eat and drink--- This is no time to sit and think; Farewell to study, books and pen, And welcome to all kinds of men. Let all men now get rid of care, Then 'tis the same, no matter which Of us is poor, or which is rich. Let each man have enough this day, Since those that can are glad to pay; There's nothing now too rich or good For poor men, not the King's own food. Now like a singing bird my feet Touch earth, and I must drink and eat. Welcome to all men: I'll not care What any of my fellows wear; We'll not let cloth divide our souls, They'll swim stark naked in the bowls. Welcome, poor beggar: I'll not see That hand of yours dislodge a flea, While you sit at my side and beg, Or right foot scratching your left leg. Farewell restraint: we will not now Measure the ale our brains allow, But drink as much as we can hold. We'll count no change when we spend gold; This is not time to save, but spend To give for nothing, not to lend. Let foes make friends: let them forget The mischief-making dead that fret the living with complaint like this -- "He wronged us once, hate him and his.." Christmas has come; let every man Eat, drink, be merry all he can. Ale's my best mark, but if port wine Or whisky's yours -- let it be mine; No matter what lies in the bowls, We'll make it rich with our own sould. Farewell to study, books and pen, And welcome to all kinds of men. W.H. Davies  |
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