Archive for the ‘William Shakespeare’ Tag
Pen and Color Desert Scene by kenne
Sonnet 73
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see’st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,Desert
As the death-bed, whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourish’d by.
This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.
— William Shakespeare
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Canyon View — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Sonnet 18
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course untrimmed:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st,
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
— William Shakespeare
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“Come Fly With Me” — Photo-Artistry by kenne
“Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.”
— William Shakespeare, The Tempest
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Kenne D. and Kenne G. (Summer, 1981)
Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest
Now is the time that face should form another;
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For where is she so fair whose uneared womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
Thou art thy mother’s glass and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime;
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.
But if thou live, remembered not to be,
Die single and thine image dies with thee.
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End of Day Reflections — Image by kenne
Picture window
Fall sunset
Darkness settles
Lights shine inside
Window reflects
Sunset is gone
Day becomes night
Mirror window
‘Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest …’
— kenne
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Lost Universe — Abstract Art by kenne
–William Shakespeare
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Joy and Katelyn, January 2006 — Image by kenne
Though she be but little, she is fierce.
— William Shakespeare
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Rillito Park Race Track II, Tucson — Images by kenne
“He’s of the colour of the nutmeg.
And of the heat of the ginger…. he is pure air and fire;
and the dull elements of earth and water never appear in him,
but only in patient stillness while his rider mounts him;
he is indeed a horse, and all other jades you may call beasts.”
― William Shakespeare, Henry V
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Becoming is Superior to Being 