Touch my heart

Touch my heart

© Odilia Liuzzi Photography


Touch my heart
Her beauty sways the gods
A gift of loving days

i’ve lost you my lovely
To the depths of an ocean
My blind faith
You follow me with your hope and devotion

I sing to your freedom
I’m lost to release you
No heaven waits for you my sweet
I’ll follow your demise to hell and beyond

I’m given the chance to lead you home
No looking back, no way to know
The light is ahead, we’re moving slow
Approaching life, where you will be home

I’ve lost you my lovely
To the depths of an ocean
My blind faith,
I follow you with my hope and devotion

I’ll sing for your freedom
I’m lost to release you
No heaven waits for us my sweet
I’ll follow your demise to hell and beyond

We will meet again
In life or in death

Touch my heart beats
And beauty sways
My life, a song, a longing day

I found you my lovely
In the depths of an ocean
A story together of hope and devotion
I found you my lovely
In the depths of an ocean
A story forever of hope and devotion


Sleepthief – Eurydice



Be still, my soul..

Be Still My Soul

© Odilia Liuzzi Photography

Be Still My Soul

Be still, my soul: the hour is hastening on
When we shall be forever with the Lord,
When disappointment, grief, and fear are gone,
Sorrow forgot, love’s joys restored.


Be Still My Soul – Page CXVI


Leaves, red leaves

Leaves, red leaves

© Odilia Liuzzi Photography

Leaves, red leaves waving in the sky… Today it’s cold but this marvel had to be photographed !! I love this color .. here is my beautiful Autumn ..

Novembre – Giovanni Pascoli


© Odilia Liuzzi Photography


Gemmea l’aria, il sole così chiaro
che tu ricerchi gli albicocchi in fiore,
e del prunalbo l’odorino amaro
senti nel cuore…
Ma secco è il pruno, e le stecchite piante
di nere trame segnano il sereno,
e vuoto il cielo, e cavo al piè sonante
sembra il terreno.
Silenzio, intorno: solo, alle ventate,
odi lontano, da giardini ed orti,
di foglie un cader fragile. E’ l’estate
fredda, dei morti.


Giovanni Pascoli

Pensiero d’Autunno – Ada Negri

pensiero d'autunno

© Odilia Liuzzi Photography


Fammi uguale, Signore, a quelle foglie
moribonde che vedo oggi nel sole
tremar dell’olmo sul più alto ramo.
Tremano, sì, ma non di pena: è tanto
limpido il sole, e dolce il distaccarsi
dal ramo per congiungersi alla terra.
S’accendono alla luce ultima, cuori
pronti all’offerta; e l’agonia, per esse,
ha la clemenza d’ una mite aurora.
Fa’ ch’io mi stacchi dal più alto ramo
di mia vita, così, senza lamento,
penetrata di Te come del sole.


Ada Negri

Autumn – Emily Dickinson


© Odilia Liuzzi Photography


The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry’s cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I’ll put a trinket on.


Emily Dickinson

Trees – Joyce Kilmer


© Odilia Liuzzi Photography


I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.





Credo che non vedrò mai
una poesia adorabile quanto un albero.

Un albero la cui bocca affamata sia puntata
contro il seno dolce e crescente della terra;

un albero che guardi a Dio tutto il giorno,
ed elevi le sue braccia fogliari in preghiera;

un albero che possa vestire in estate
un nido di pettirossi fra i suoi capelli;

sulla cui superficie la neve venga deposta;
che respiri manifestamente insieme alla pioggia.

Le poesie sono cucite dai pazzi come me,
ma soltanto Dio può creare un albero.



Dark Chestnut – John Freeman

dark chestnut

© Odilia Liuzzi Photography

Dark Chestnut

Thou shaking thy dark shadows down,
Like leaves before the first leaves fall,
Pourest upon the head of night
Her loveliest loveliness of all —
Dark leaves that tremble
When soft airs unto softer call.
O, darker, softer fall her thoughts
Upon the cold fields of my mind,
Weaving a quiet music there
Like leaf-shapes trembling in least wind:
Dark thoughts that linger
When the light’s gone and the night’s blind.
I see her there beneath your boughs.
Dark chestnut, though you see her not;
Her white face and white hands are clear
As the moon in your stretched arms caught;
But stranger, clearer,
The living shadows of her thought.


John Freeman


Here come the chestnuts ..

Here come the chestnuts

© Odilia Liuzzi Photography

Here come the chestnuts .. and also the first real autumn chill. Today the landscape looks almost as good as if all this coolness soften the fruit, the air, the colors and objects. Today it’s cold but the sun is shining and that’s enough to make this day magical. The leaves on the lawn seem golden and all around is a real magic .. the magic of Autumn..

Ode to Autumn – John Keats

ode to autumn

© Odilia Liuzzi Photography

This is a beautiful ode to Autumn, a tribute to his magic. I am extremely impressed and enchanted by the words of the great John Keats..

To Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.


John Keats (1820)