View allAll Photos Tagged Elegy
2013.08.30. Sopron 2016 001
Wulkaprodersdorf és Ebenfurth között pályafelújítási munkálatokat végeznek ezért a tehervonatok kerülő útirányra kényszerülnek. Az egyik ilyen útvonal a Wien-Neusiedl am See-Eisenstadt-Wulkaprodersdorf-Sopron szakasz a másik pedig Wiener Neustadt-Sopron közötti szakasz. A képen éppen Wr.Neustadt felől érkezik egy tehervonat Sopronba.
ÖBB 2016 001 going from Wr.Neustadt to Sopron.
Wegen Bauarbeiten zwischen Wulkaprodersdorf und Ebenfurth fahren die Güterzüge Umleitungsverkehr. 2016 001 fährt mit einem Güterzug über Mattersburgerbahn Wulkaprodersdorf nach Sopron.
...lead but to the grave. Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard by Thomas Gray. Churchyard of the Little Cataloochee Baptist Church in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Happy Halloween!
HiS***PhotoArt ® © All Rights Reserved
seen in Essen, Germany
"No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace
as I have seen in one autumnal face"
(John Donne, Elegy IX)
"For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror which we are barely able to endure, and it amazes us so, because it serenely distains to destroy us. Every angel is terrible." (Rilke~ Duino Elegies )
The ruins of an old Anglican church (St Peter's), built about 1300, by Anfred de Staunton, which burnt down in 1971
From Thomas Gray "Elegy in a Country Churchyard"
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
Queenstown, Tasmania, Australia
There is some background on this recent post on Light Paths.
HiS***PhotoArt ® © All Rights Reserved
"No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace
as I have seen in one autumnal face"
(John Donne, Elegy IX)
seen in Göttingen, Germany
Created for Faestock Challenge 135 - Forest Maiden 29
Thanks for this stock image:
redwolf518stock.deviantart.com/art/Bad-Willow-Cemetery-St...
"Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep."
Thomas Gray
- from his poem, " Elegy from a country churchyard"
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Comment by eyewrisz/Iris/Rose:
who can remember their first vision of snow
a wondrous sight an enchanting glow
you walk along a path that's bright
and hope it lasts throughout the night
Thanks Iris !!
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On 21 Januar 1912 from Duino to Marie Taxis sent, probably immediately after birth.
The First Elegy
Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the Angelic
Orders? And even if one were to suddenly
take me to its heart, I would vanish into its
stronger existence. For beauty is nothing but
the beginning of terror, that we are still able to bear,
and we revere it so, because it calmly disdains
to destroy us. Every Angel is terror.
And so I hold myself back and swallow the cry
of a darkened sobbing. Ah, who then can
we make use of? Not Angels: not men,
and the resourceful creatures see clearly
that we are not really at home
in the interpreted world. Perhaps there remains
some tree on a slope, that we can see
again each day: there remains to us yesterday’s street,
and the thinned-out loyalty of a habit
that liked us, and so stayed, and never departed.
Oh, and the night, the night, when the wind full of space
wears out our faces – whom would she not stay for,
the longed-for, gentle, disappointing one, whom the solitary heart
with difficulty stands before. Is she less heavy for lovers?
Ah, they only hide their fate between themselves.
Do you not know yet? Throw the emptiness out of your arms
to add to the spaces we breathe; maybe the birds
will feel the expansion of air, in more intimate flight.
Yes, the Spring-times needed you deeply. Many a star
must have been there for you so you might feel it. A wave
lifted towards you out of the past, or, as you walked
past an open window, a violin
gave of itself. All this was their mission.
But could you handle it? Were you not always,
still, distracted by expectation, as if all you experienced,
like a Beloved, came near to you? (Where could you contain her,
with all the vast strange thoughts in you
going in and out, and often staying the night.)
But if you are yearning, then sing the lovers: for long
their notorious feelings have not been immortal enough.
Those, you almost envied them, the forsaken, that you
found as loving as those who were satisfied. Begin,
always as new, the unattainable praising:
think: the hero prolongs himself, even his falling
was only a pretext for being, his latest rebirth.
But lovers are taken back by exhausted Nature
into herself, as if there were not the power
to make them again. Have you remembered
Gastara Stampa sufficiently yet, that any girl,
whose lover has gone, might feel from that
intenser example of love: ‘Could I only become like her?’
Should not these ancient sufferings be finally
fruitful for us? Isn’t it time that, loving,
we freed ourselves from the beloved, and, trembling, endured
as the arrow endures the bow, so as to be, in its flight,
something more than itself? For staying is nowhere.
Voices, voices. Hear then, my heart, as only
saints have heard: so that the mighty call
raised them from the earth: they, though, knelt on
impossibly and paid no attention:
such was their listening. Not that you could withstand
God’s voice: far from it. But listen to the breath,
the unbroken message that creates itself from the silence.
It rushes towards you now, from those youthfully dead.
Whenever you entered, didn’t their fate speak to you,
quietly, in churches in Naples or Rome?
Or else an inscription exaltedly impressed itself on you,
as lately the tablet in Santa Maria Formosa.
What do they will of me? That I should gently remove
the semblance of injustice, that slightly, at times,
hinders their spirits from a pure moving-on.
It is truly strange to no longer inhabit the earth,
to no longer practice customs barely acquired,
not to give a meaning of human futurity
to roses, and other expressly promising things:
no longer to be what one was in endlessly anxious hands,
and to set aside even one’s own
proper name like a broken plaything.
Strange: not to go on wishing one’s wishes. Strange
to see all that was once in place, floating
so loosely in space. And it’s hard being dead,
and full of retrieval, before one gradually feels
a little eternity. Though the living
all make the error of drawing too sharp a distinction.
Angels (they say) would often not know whether
they moved among living or dead. The eternal current
sweeps all the ages, within it, through both the spheres,
forever, and resounds above them in both.
Finally they have no more need of us, the early-departed,
weaned gently from earthly things, as one outgrows
the mother’s mild breast. But we, needing
such great secrets, for whom sadness is often
the source of a blessed progress, could we exist without them?
Is it a meaningless story how once, in the grieving for Linos,
first music ventured to penetrate arid rigidity,
so that, in startled space, which an almost godlike youth
suddenly left forever, the emptiness first felt
the quivering that now enraptures us, and comforts, and helps.
Die erste Elegie
Wer, wenn ich schriee, hörte mich denn aus der Engel
Ordnungen? und gesetzt selbst, es nähme
einer mich plötzlich ans Herz: ich verginge von seinem
stärkeren Dasein. Denn das Schöne ist nichts
als des Schrecklichen Anfang, den wir noch grade ertragen,
und wir bewundern es so, weil es gelassen verschmäht,
uns zu zerstören. Ein jeder Engel ist schrecklich.
Und so verhalt ich mich denn und verschlucke den Lockruf
dunkelen Schluchzens. Ach, wen vermögen
wir denn zu brauchen? Engel nicht, Menschen nicht,
und die findigen Tiere merken es schon,
daß wir nicht sehr verläßlich zu Haus sind
in der gedeuteten Welt. Es bleibt uns vielleicht
irgend ein Baum an dem Abhang, daß wir ihn täglich
wiedersähen; es bleibt uns die Straße von gestern
und das verzogene Treusein einer Gewohnheit,
der es bei uns gefiel, und so blieb sie und ging nicht.
O und die Nacht, die Nacht, wenn der Wind voller Weltraum
uns am Angesicht zehrt –, wem bliebe sie nicht, die ersehnte,
sanft enttäuschende, welche dem einzelnen Herzen
mühsam bevorsteht. Ist sie den Liebenden leichter?
Ach, sie verdecken sich nur mit einander ihr Los.
Weißt du's noch nicht? Wirf aus den Armen die Leere
[686] zu den Räumen hinzu, die wir atmen; vielleicht daß die Vögel
die erweiterte Luft fühlen mit innigerm Flug.
Ja, die Frühlinge brauchten dich wohl. Es muteten manche
Sterne dir zu, daß du sie spürtest. Es hob
sich eine Woge heran im Vergangenen, oder
da du vorüberkamst am geöffneten Fenster,
gab eine Geige sich hin. Das alles war Auftrag.
Aber bewältigtest du's? Warst du nicht immer
noch von Erwartung zerstreut, als kündigte alles
eine Geliebte dir an? (Wo willst du sie bergen,
da doch die großen fremden Gedanken bei dir
aus und ein gehn und öfters bleiben bei Nacht.)
Sehnt es dich aber, so singe die Liebenden; lange
noch nicht unsterblich genug ist ihr berühmtes Gefühl.
Jene, du neidest sie fast, Verlassenen, die du
so viel liebender fandst als die Gestillten. Beginn
immer von neuem die nie zu erreichende Preisung;
denk: es erhält sich der Held, selbst der Untergang war ihm
nur ein Vorwand, zu sein: seine letzte Geburt.
Aber die Liebenden nimmt die erschöpfte Natur
in sich zurück, als wären nicht zweimal die Kräfte,
dieses zu leisten. Hast du der Gaspara Stampa
denn genügend gedacht, daß irgend ein Mädchen,
dem der Geliebte entging, am gesteigerten Beispiel
dieser Liebenden fühlt: daß ich würde wie sie?
[687] Sollen nicht endlich uns diese ältesten Schmerzen
fruchtbarer werden? Ist es nicht Zeit, daß wir liebend
uns vom Geliebten befrein und es bebend bestehn:
wie der Pfeil die Sehne besteht, um gesammelt im Absprung
mehr zu sein als er selbst. Denn Bleiben ist nirgends.
Stimmen, Stimmen. Höre, mein Herz, wie sonst nur
Heilige hörten: daß sie der riesige Ruf
aufhob vom Boden; sie aber knieten,
Unmögliche, weiter und achtetens nicht:
So waren sie hörend. Nicht, daß du Gottes ertrügest
die Stimme, bei weitem. Aber das Wehende höre,
die ununterbrochene Nachricht, die aus Stille sich bildet.
Es rauscht jetzt von jenen jungen Toten zu dir.
Wo immer du eintratst, redete nicht in Kirchen
zu Rom und Neapel ruhig ihr Schicksal dich an?
Oder es trug eine Inschrift sich erhaben dir auf,
wie neulich die Tafel in Santa Maria Formosa.
Was sie mir wollen? leise soll ich des Unrechts
Anschein abtun, der ihrer Geister
reine Bewegung manchmal ein wenig behindert.
Freilich ist es seltsam, die Erde nicht mehr zu bewohnen,
kaum erlernte Gebräuche nicht mehr zu üben,
Rosen, und andern eigens versprechenden Dingen
nicht die Bedeutung menschlicher Zukunft zu geben;
[688] das, was man war in unendlich ängstlichen Händen,
nicht mehr zu sein, und selbst den eigenen Namen
wegzulassen wie ein zerbrochenes Spielzeug.
Seltsam, die Wünsche nicht weiter zu wünschen. Seltsam,
alles, was sich bezog, so lose im Raume
flattern zu sehen. Und das Totsein ist mühsam
und voller Nachholn, daß man allmählich ein wenig
Ewigkeit spürt. – Aber Lebendige machen
alle den Fehler, daß sie zu stark unterscheiden.
Engel (sagt man) wüßten oft nicht, ob sie unter
Lebenden gehn oder Toten. Die ewige Strömung
reißt durch beide Bereiche alle Alter
immer mit sich und übertönt sie in beiden.
Schließlich brauchen sie uns nicht mehr, die Früheentrückten,
man entwöhnt sich des Irdischen sanft, wie man den Brüsten
milde der Mutter entwächst. Aber wir, die so große
Geheimnisse brauchen, denen aus Trauer so oft
seliger Fortschritt entspringt –: könnten wir sein ohne sie?
Ist die Sage umsonst, daß einst in der Klage um Linos
wagende erste Musik dürre Erstarrung durchdrang;
daß erst im erschrockenen Raum, dem ein beinah göttlicher Jüngling
plötzlich für immer enttrat, das Leere in jene
Schwingung geriet, die uns jetzt hinreißt und tröstet und hilft.
Source:Rainer Maria Rilke: Sämtliche Werke. Band 1–6, Band 1, Wiesbaden und Frankfurt a.M. 1955–1966, S. 685-689.
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Rainer Maria Rilke
Duino Elegies
From the possession of the Princess
Marie von Thurn und Taxis-Hohenlohe
(1912/1922)
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|| Wikipedia: Rainer Maria Rilke || Duino Elegies || Castle Duina-Aurisina ||
LARGE View On Black
Somehow recently I've visited a few of London old cemetries. Sofar i did not plan any series but may be. I do not think it is gloomy subject as they are quite interesting places, very old, gothic almost...
Wish you great weekend!
HiS***PhotoArt ® © All Rights Reserved
seen in Essen, Germany
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"No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace
as I have seen in one autumnal face"
(John Donne, Elegy IX)
Walt Whitman construes the Hermit Thrush as a symbol of the American voice, poetic and otherwise, in his elegy for Abraham Lincoln, "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom".
Whitman uses a series of rural and natural imagery including the symbols of the lilacs, a drooping star in the western sky (Venus), and the hermit thrush, and employs the traditional progression of the pastoral elegy in moving from grief toward an acceptance and knowledge of death. The poem also addresses the pity of war through imagery vaguely referencing the American Civil War (1861–1865) which ended only days before the assassination.
Source:Wikipedia.org
This shot was taken without flash and as always handheld.
Laddie pondering life’s great secrets including how long is he going to be taking photographs and when can we carry on with the walk through the landscape of Llanfairfechan, North Wales.
Explore Highest position: 68 on Wednesday, July 19, 2017
I held it so tight that I lost it
Said the Child of the Butterfly
Of many a vaster Capture
That is the Elegy —
Emily Dickinson
from
'Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard'
By Thomas Gray.
St Peter's Church, Bywell, Northumberland
Shanghai, China.
"Those Who Dwell In Silence", a series.
an elegy for the many, who are alienated, disconnected, from reality.
I think I'll embark on a new series of work, if I have enough photographs for it that is.
Have been strongly influenced by Ralph Eugene Meatyard recently. His works are spectacular.. They're so very dark and unsettling in nature, it's impossible not to be awed by it all.
My book, 'Elegy from the Edge of a Continent: Photographing Point Reyes' has been published. As some of you know, bringing this thing into the light has been a long journey, and I just wanted to say, to everyone who has encouraged me over the years, or even simply 'liked' a picture of mine, thank you. Your kindness has shored me up more times than I can count. But the book, yes! It is available now, in selected bookstores, or from the publisher (see link below). If you'd like an autographed copy (eh-hem), I'd be more than happy to sell you a copy directly. They're $30 plus shipping within the US. Just send me a pm, or reach out to me via my email, austin@austingranger.com, or visit my website, www.austingranger.com. Thank you all! www.goffbooks.com/book/elegy-edge-continent
Toned cyanotype from my “Elegy” portfolio, which is about my journey of healing from my hysterectomy. I am happy to say that this print will be going to its new home soon. It’s such an incredible pleasure when someone is so moved by a piece of my art that he asks to buy it. Two sales in the past week... not too shabby! :-)
Happy Sunday, friends. ❤️
It's been years since I stopped by this place, and it;s looking the worse for wear now.
I was told that 2 turrets were removed a couple of years ago.
This castle was built with love, by a man for his wife. The wife died, and he remarried, and since his death, the second wife has been living there, although I was told that it was unknown if she still did as she is in her 90s. Looking at the state of the place, I am going to guess that this old place has been abandoned now.
rivière Coaticook, Québec, Canada
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The image was taken with a Sony ILCA-99M2 and Tamron 28-300mm f3.5-6.3 Di PZD - A010S
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Jelentős elegy mozgatása két Szergejjel és nagy füsttel 2017 márciusában Eperjeske-rendezőben. A másik tartalék az elegy Ukrajna felőle végén volt, emlékeim szerint az 518-as.
Moving enormous amount of wagons with two M62s in the shounting yard of Eperjeske in the spring of 2017. If I remember well, the other loco was M62 518 on the other end of the wagons.