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Seasons of Old Rag Mountain

 
Seasons of Old Rag Mountain

Page Type: Album

Object Title: Seasons of Old Rag Mountain

Image Type(s): Hiking

 

Page By: Wiktoria Plawska

Created/Edited: Jun 26, 2012 / Jun 26, 2012

Object ID: 797111

Hits: 596 

Page Score: 81.18% - 13 Votes 

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Fall

Autumn in the Mountains
 


The first chill of fall becomes a prelude to winter’s slumber

Hues of crimson and gold are splashed across the mountains

Visitors to the woods walk softly on a carpet of warm colors

An infinite number of leaves move back and forth like soft waves

The barren trees a stark contrast to the soon falling snow

The beauty of Mother Nature quietly covers all like a blanket


Steve

Winter

Old Rag Mountain
 





How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December’s bareness every where!
And yet this time removed was summer’s time,
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widow’d wombs after their lords’ decease:
Yet this abundant issue seem’d to me
But hope of orphans and unfather’d fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And, thou away, the very birds are mute;
Or, if they sing, ’tis with so dull a cheer
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter’s near.


Sonnet 97
by William Shakespeare (1609)

Spring

Endless Courage!
 


Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours,
Fair Venus' train appear,
Disclose the long-expecting flowers,
And wake the purple year!
The Attic warbler pours her throat,
Responsive to the cuckoo's note,
The untaught harmony of spring:
While whisp'ring pleasure as they fly,
Cool zephyrs thro' the clear blue sky
Their gather'd fragrance fling.


Ode on the Spring
BY THOMAS GRAY

Summer

Old Rag
 


O thou who passest thro’ our valleys in
Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat
That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer,
Oft pitchedst here thy golden tent, and oft
Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld
With joy, thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.

Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard
Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car
Rode o’er the deep of heaven: beside our springs
Sit down, and in our mossy valleys, on
Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy
Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream:
Our valleys love the Summer in his pride.


To Summer

William Blake

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