Temple (Redwood)

What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape   Of deities or mortals, or of both,     In Temple or the dales of Arcady? -John Keats, Ode on a Grecian Urn

Mysterious Priests (Redwood)

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?     To what green altar, O mysterious priest -John Keats, Ode on a Grecian Urn

Sunset Tree (SF Bay)

Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone. -Felicia Dorothea Hemans, Tyrolese Evening Song

Wind of Night (SF Bay)

Thine eyes glow'd in the glare     Of the moon's dying light;           As a fen-fire's beam           On a sluggish stream Gleams dimly--so the moon shone there, And it yellow'd the strings of thy tangled hair,         That shook in the wind of night. -Percy Bysshe Shelley, Lines: The cold earth slept below, 1823

Soft Murmur (French Alps)

and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs With a soft inland murmur. -William Wordsworth, Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey, 1798

Gentle Touch (French Alps)

Ere from the mutilated bower I turned Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, I felt a sense of pain when I beheld The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky.-- Then, dearest Maiden, move along these shades In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand Touch--for there is a spirit in the woods. -William Wordsworth, Nutting, 1800

Evening Silhouette (French Alps)

What is your substance, whereof are you made, That millions of strange shadows on you tend? Since everyone hath, everyone, one shade, And you, but one, can every shadow lend. -William Shakespeare, What is your substance, whereof are you made, 1609

A Faint Note (SF Bay)

I seem to hear a bar of music float And swoon into the west ; My ear can scarcely catch the whispered note, But something in my breast Blends with that strain, till both accord in one, As cloud and colour blend at set of sun. -Emily Pauline Johnson, Flint and Feather, 1912

Crimson Whisper (SF Bay)

as a wanderer out in ocean, Where some refulgent sunset of India Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean isle,     And crimson-hued the stately palm-woods         Whisper in odorous heights of even. -Alfred Lord Tennyson, Milton (Alcaics), 1863

Untitled (Princeton)