On a dark night, Kindled in love with yearnings–oh, happy chance!– I went forth without being observed, My house being now at rest.

In darkness and secure, By the secret ladder, disguised–oh, happy chance!– In darkness and in concealment, My house being now at rest.

In the happy night, In secret, when none saw me, Nor I beheld aught, Without light or guide, save that which burned in my heart.

This light guided me More surely than the light of noonday To the place where he (well I knew who!) was awaiting me– A place where none appeared.

Oh, night that guided me, Oh, night more lovely than the dawn, Oh, night that joined Beloved with lover, Lover transformed in the Beloved!

Upon my flowery breast, Kept wholly for himself alone, There he stayed sleeping, and I caressed him, And the fanning of the cedars made a breeze.

The breeze blew from the turret As I parted his locks; With his gentle hand he wounded my neck And caused all my senses to be suspended.

I remained, lost in oblivion; My face I reclined on the Beloved. All ceased and I abandoned myself, Leaving my cares forgotten among the lilies.

St John of the Cross, Christian Mystic and Poet. Spain. 16th Century

[caption id="attachment_171744" align="aligncenter" width="1080"]Every Picture Tells a Story: Dusk and vespers at Wysa Słodowa in Wrocław Vespers, Ostrów Tumski, Wroclaw Poland. Copyright Content Catnip 2016[/caption]

It is the time when crimson stars Weary of heaven’s cold delight, And take, like petals from a rose, Their soft and hesitating flight Upon the cool wings of the air Across the purple night.

It is the time when silver sails Go drifting down the violet sea, And every poppy’s crimson mouth Kisses to sleep a lovesick bee; The fireweed waves her rosy plumes On pasture, hill and lea.

It is the time to dream—and feel The lanquid rocking of a boat, The pushing ripple round the keel Where cool, deep-hearted lilies float, And hear thro’ wild syringas steal Some songster’s drowsy note.

It is the time, at eve, to lie And in a hammock faintly sway, To watch the golds and crimsons die Across the blue stretch of the bay; To hear the sweet dusk tiptoe by In the footsteps of the day.

Ella Rhoads Higginson, American 1862 - 1940

[caption id="attachment_171740" align="aligncenter" width="1080"]Cycling adventures at dusk in Wrocław The Gloaming Part 3.  Wrocław, Poland Copyright Content Catnip 2016[/caption]

The Art of Illusion: The Panorama of the Battle of Racławice

The Panorama of the Battle of Racławice (Panorama Racławicka) is a definite must on any trip to the city of Wrocław. The panorama is as iconic to Wrocław as Wawel Castle is to Kraków. The Wrocław Panorama is a gigantic 114 metre long and 15 metre high painting that depicts the battle of Racławice. This was an epic battle of […]