Poking through your pictures a bit and came across this one. How pretty and peaceful the silent town street on a winter's ever. Love seeing the lights aglow, it brings a warmth to the chilly scene.
Saw a comment on one of your images on FB regarding classic frost and had to come back to this image, as I found something that is classic Frost. (the poet that is) that seems to fit this image well:
Good Hours
I had for my winter evening walk— No one at all with whom to talk, But I had the cottages in a row Up to their shining eyes in snow.
And I thought I had the folk within: I had the sound of a violin; I had a glimpse through curtain laces Of youthful forms and youthful faces.
I had such company outward bound. I went till there were no cottages found. I turned and repented, but coming back I saw no window but that was black.
Over the snow my creaking feet Disturbed the slumbering village street Like profanation, by your leave, At ten o'clock of a winter eve.
Robert Frost
This takes me back to the town I grew up in. I look at this and hear the snow crunching underfoot and feel the icy air upon my face.
Poking through your pictures a bit and came across this one. How pretty and peaceful the silent town street on a winter's ever. Love seeing the lights aglow, it brings a warmth to the chilly scene.
ReplyDelete"winter's eve"--sorry, darn auto spell correct!
DeleteSaw a comment on one of your images on FB regarding classic frost and had to come back to this image, as I found something that is classic Frost. (the poet that is) that seems to fit this image well:
DeleteGood Hours
I had for my winter evening walk—
No one at all with whom to talk,
But I had the cottages in a row
Up to their shining eyes in snow.
And I thought I had the folk within:
I had the sound of a violin;
I had a glimpse through curtain laces
Of youthful forms and youthful faces.
I had such company outward bound.
I went till there were no cottages found.
I turned and repented, but coming back
I saw no window but that was black.
Over the snow my creaking feet
Disturbed the slumbering village street
Like profanation, by your leave,
At ten o'clock of a winter eve.
Robert Frost
This takes me back to the town I grew up in. I look at this and hear the snow crunching underfoot and feel the icy air upon my face.