avalon's PhotoBlog

Holy Bible

2013-05-18T22:55:57Z

Or despisest thou the riches of his goodnesse, and forbearance, and long suffering, not knowing that the goodnes of God leadeth thee to repentance? Romans 2:4

The flower that once has blown for ever dies

2013-05-03T21:11:06Z

Oh, come with old Khayyam, and leave the Wise To talk; one thing is certain, that Life flies; One thing is certain, and the Rest is Lies; The Flower that once has blown for ever dies. Omar Khayyam

Mass

2012-09-03T02:48:16Z

Crypt

2012-08-17T06:44:38Z

"Den Erlenkönig mit Kron und Schweif?" – "Mein Sohn, es ist ein Nebelstreif."

2012-07-16T14:08:28Z

Der Erlkönig by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe Wer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind? Es ist der Vater mit seinem Kind; Er hat den Knaben wohl in dem Arm, Er faßt ihn sicher, er hält ihn warm. "Mein Sohn, was birgst du so bang dein Gesicht?" – "Siehst, Vater, du den Erlkönig nicht? Den Erlenkönig mit Kron und Schweif?" – "Mein Sohn, es ist ein Nebelstreif." "Du liebes Kind, komm, geh mit mir! Gar schöne Spiele spiel' ich mit dir; Manch' bunte Blumen sind an dem Strand, Meine Mutter hat manch gülden Gewand." – "Mein Vater, mein Vater, und hörest du nicht, Was Erlenkönig mir leise verspricht?" – "Sei ruhig, bleibe ruhig, mein Kind; In dürren Blättern säuselt der Wind." – "Willst, feiner Knabe, du mit mir gehen? Meine Töchter sollen dich warten schön; Meine Töchter führen den nächtlichen Reihn, Und wiegen und tanzen und singen dich ein." – "Mein Vater, mein Vater, und siehst du nicht dort Erlkönigs Töchter am düstern Ort?" – "Mein Sohn, mein Sohn, ich seh es genau: Es scheinen die alten Weiden so grau. –" "Ich liebe dich, mich reizt deine schöne Gestalt; Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch ich Gewalt." – "Mein Vater, mein Vater, jetzt faßt er mich an! Erlkönig hat mir ein Leids getan!" – Dem Vater grauset's, er reitet geschwind, Er hält in Armen das ächzende Kind, Erreicht den Hof mit Müh' und Not; In seinen Armen das Kind war tot. The Elfking by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe Who rides, so late, through night and wind? It is the father with his child. He has the boy well in his arm He holds him safely, he keeps him warm. "My son, why do you hide your face so anxiously?" "Father, do you not see the Elfking? The Elfking with crown and tail?" "My son, it's a wisp of fog." "You dear child, come, go with me! Very lovely games I'll play with you; Some colourful flowers are on the beach, My mother has some golden robes." "My father, my father, and don't you hear What the Elfking quietly promises me?" "Be calm, stay calm, my child; The wind is rustling through withered leaves." "Do you want to come with me, pretty boy? My daughters shall wait on you finely; My daughters will lead the nightly dance, And rock and dance and sing you to sleep." "My father, my father, and don't you see there The Elfking's daughters in the gloomy place?" "My son, my son, I see it clearly: There shimmer the old willows so grey." "I love you, your beautiful form entices me; And if you're not willing, then I will use force." "My father, my father, he's grabbing me now! The Elfking has done me harm!" It horrifies the father; he swiftly rides on, He holds the moaning child in his arms, Reaches the farm with trouble and hardship; In his arms, the child was dead. Ian Bostridge - Schubert: Der Erlkönig

Happy Birthday to the Most Charming Pianist in the World!

2012-07-05T10:26:40Z

Lívia Rév, 96!

Let me be again an Oxford Methodist!

2012-06-17T21:55:34Z

Let me be again an Oxford Methodist! John Wesley The founder of Methodism, John Wesley was born on June 17, 1703

Rainbow

2012-06-12T01:10:39Z

I do set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of a covenant between me and the earth. Genesis 9:13

Dedicated to Erik Satie

2012-05-17T20:43:37Z

17 May 1866 – Paris Everyone will tell you that I am not a musician. That is correct. / Erik Satie Erik Satie - Gnossienne No. 1

Eres música, firmamentos, palacios, ríos, ángeles, rosa profunda, ilimitada, íntima, que el Señor mostrará a mis ojos muertos.

2012-05-12T16:28:20Z

The Unending Rose A los quinientos años de la Hégira Persia miró desde sus alminares la invasión de las lanzas del desierto y Attar de Nishapur miró una rosa y le dijo con tácita palabra como el que piensa, no como el que reza: Tu vaga esfera está en mi mano. El tiempo nos encorva a los dos y nos ignora en esta tarde de un jardín perdido. Tu leve peso es húmedo en el aire. La incesante pleamar de tu fragancia sube a mi vieja cara que declina pero te sé más lejos que aquel niño que te entrevió en las láminas de un sueño o aquí en este jardín, una mañana. La blancura del sol puede ser tuya o el oro de la luna o la bermeja firmeza de la espada en la victoria. Soy ciego y nada sé, pero preveo que son más los caminos. Cada cosa es infinitas cosas. Eres música, firmamentos, palacios, ríos, ángeles, rosa profunda, ilimitada, íntima, que el Señor mostrará a mis ojos muertos. /Jorge Luis Borges The Unending Rose To Susana Bombal Five hundred years in the wake of the Hegira, Persia looked down from its minarets on the invasion of the desert lances, and Attar of Nishapur gazed on a rose, addressing it in words which had no sound, as one who thinks rather than one who prays: ‘Your fragile globe is in my hand; and time is bending both of us, both unaware, this afternoon, in a forgotten garden. Your brittle shape is humid in the air. The steady, tidal fullness of your fragrance rises up to my old, declining face. But I know you far longer than that child who glimpsed you in the layers of a dream or here, in this garden, once upon a morning. The whiteness of the sun may well be yours or the moon’s gold, or else the crimson stain on the hard sword-edge in the victory. I am blind and I know nothing, but I see there are more ways to go; and everything is an infinity of things. You, you are music, rivers, firmaments, palaces and angels, O endless rose, intimate, without limit, which the Lord will finally show to my dead eyes. / Jorge Luis Borges