"These images were mortal without love,
Pithless, unfocused; would lie down to die:
The bracing rain which drives towards the shore,
The shags' sea-race: then on the yellow cliff
Campion, montbretia, ragwort; tufted crests
Of knapweed, and the corraline
Delicate tamarisk; pagoda-bells,
Warm fuchsia sways for color, all the pomp,
Purple and gold, of August's panoply.
These images were empty less your love.
Love is a lamp within the alabaster,
Irradiation in the bowl of sky
That stirs my life to wonder, blazons earth.
Love is the soundless flight of a white bird
Which else were flesh and feathers and no more."
- 'These Images' by Joseph Braddock
"It is through celebration that we become part of what we perceive: the great arc of birdsong--that runs around the world in the receding darkness and through which we are swept into the light of day-- is as much part of the dawn as the sun's first flash."
-Norman Mommens