Albert Bierstadt - , Wolfgang Amadeaus Mozart - Violin Concerto No. 1 ,

If you haven't had a chance yet to look at the many gorgeous paintings by Albert Bierstadt you can view them on this link -http://www.albertbierstadt.org/
Here is another fine painting by this skilled artist.  He manages to capture this wave and the light shining through it as well as the rocks, shells and sand of the seashore.  This might be a fun painting to try to copy in watercolor or colored pencil.




This is the first of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's Violin Concertos.  It was written in 1775 when Mozart was only 19.  It has three parts with a slower movement sandwiched between two faster movements. The following is a definition of "concerto" by Wikipedia:  A concerto is a musical composition usually composed in three parts or movements, in which (usually) one solo instrument (for instance, a piano, violin, cello or flute) is accompanied by an orchestra.
You can listen to Mozart's Concerto No. 1 here

I am reluctant to leave John Greenleaf Whittier and his wonderful poetry but it's time to move on to another poet.  There are many more fine poems he has written - we've barely scratched the surface.  If you would like to continue with this poet here are a couple of links to more of his works. 
Ambleside Online - John Greenleaf Whittier
 Poet's Corner - John Greenleaf Whittier
 Poem Hunter = John Greenleaf Whittier
 A final poem by John Greenleaf Whittier -

              The Barefoot Boy

BLESSINGS on thee, little man,

Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!

With thy turned-up pantaloons,

And thy merry whistled tunes;

With thy red lip, redder still

Kissed by strawberries on the hill;

With the sunshine on thy face,

Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace;

From my heart I give thee joy,-

I was once a barefoot boy!

Prince thou art,- the grown-up man

Only is republican.

Let the million-dollared ride!

Barefoot, trudging at his side,

Thou hast more than he can buy

In the reach of ear and eye,-

Outward sunshine, inward joy:

Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood's painless play,

Sleep that wakes in laughing day,

Health that mocks the doctor's rules,

Knowledge never learned of schools,

Of the wild bee's morning chase,

Of the wild flower's time and place,

Flight of fowl and habitude

Of the tenants of the wood;

How the tortoise bears his shell,

How the woodchuck digs his cell,

And the round mole sinks his well

How the robin feeds her young,

How the oriole's nest is hung;

Where the whitest lilies blow,

Where the freshest berries grow,

Where the groundnut trails its vine,

Where the wood grape's clusters shine;

Of the black wasp's cunning way,

Mason of his walls of clay,

And the architectural plans

Of gray hornet artisans!-

For, eschewing books and tasks,

Nature answers all he asks;

Hand in hand with her he walks,

Face to face with her he talks,

Part and parcel of her joy,-

Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood's time of June,

Crowding years in one brief moon,

When all things I heard or saw

Me, their master, waited for.

I was rich in flowers and trees,

Humming birds and honeybees;

For my sport the squirrel played,

Plied the snouted mole his spade;

For my taste the blackberry cone

Purpled over hedge and stone;

Laughed the brook for my delight

Through the day and through the night,

Whispering at the garden wall,

Talked with me from fall to fall;

Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,

Mine the walnut slopes beyond,

Mine, on bending orchard trees,

Apples of Hesperides!

Still, as my horizon grew,

Larger grew my riches too;

All the world I saw or knew

Seemed a complex Chinese toy,

Fashioned for a barefoot boy!

Oh for festal dainties spread,

Like my bowl of milk and bread,-

Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,

On the doorstone, gray and rude!

O're me, like a regal tent,

Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,

Purple-curtained, fringed with gold;

Looped in many a wind-swung fold;

While for music came the play

Of the pied frog's orchestra;

And to light the noisy choir,

Lit the fly his lamp of fire.

I was monarch: pomp and joy

Waited on thebarefoot boy!

Cheerily, then my little man,

Live and laugh, as boyhood can!

Though the flinty slopes be hard,

Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,

Every morn shall lead thee through

Fresh baptisms of the dew;

Every evening from thy feet

Shall the cool wind kiss the heat:

All too soon these feet must hide

In the prison cells of pride,

Lose the freedom of the sod,

Like a colt's for work be shod,

Made to tread the mills of toi,

Up and down in ceaseless moil:

Happy if their track be found

Never on forbidden ground;

Happy if they sink not in

Quick and treacherous sands of sin.

Ah! that thou shouldst know thy joy

Ere it passes, barefoot boy!

John Greenleaf Whittier