Breathes there the man with soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored , and unsung.
- Sir Walter Scott, The Lay of the Last Minstrel
i had managed to get away from the family this morning after breakfast - the grands wanted to see the dinosaurs and play at the arcade. so i walked down to the falls and did a bit of street shots. the mists from the falls came down as tiny ice pebbles and the sidewalks were salted to prevent icing. thick ice covered the fences' railings and as there were no strong winds i had managed to take a few shots for padraigh penwyn. people gathered around me nosing around what i was doing. i had wanted to include katy and little wahoo but people were just so damned nosey and inquisitive.
not trying to emulate
@northy 's style but when you have similar subjects it is quite difficult to get away from it. i like this though, it's almost the same but still entirely different. but as you all know, it is very difficult to copy
@northy as her handling of lighting and her perspectives are quite all her own.
the sir walter scott poem came to mind as soon as i saw this shot. something in the toy that looked pensive as it stared at the icy surrounding and the cold atmosphere along with the strong sunshine. it's funny how i could still remember these poems which i knew from high school, more than forty years ago.
thank you for your kind visits and comments; know that they are so much appreciated.
