Photography Blog from

Winter Solitude


I saw the city’s towers on a luminous pale-grey sky;

Beyond them a hill of the softest mistiest green,

With naught but frost and the coming of night between,

And a long thin cloud above the colour of August rye.


I sat in the midst of a plain on my snowshoes with bended knee

Where the thin wind stung my cheeks,

And the hard snow ran in little ripples and peaks,

Like the fretted floor of a white and petrified sea.


   And a strange peace gathered about my soul and shone,

As I sat reflecting there,

In a world so mystically fair,

So deathly silent–I so utterly alone.


Lampman, Archibald (1861 – 1899)





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