She Walks In Beauty

SHE walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies,

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meets in her aspect and her eyes …

I really don’t know why, but these opening lines of Lord Byron’s poem always come to mind when I am walking in our old capital city at sundown.  Strange, really, since Byron was thinking of a woman when he wrote this poem and not about an ancient city. But I think that the words suit the place well. Those of you who read my other blog will already  know how much I love this place. I can’t seem to keep away from it.

Because Mdina never fails to enchant me. I hover around with my camera in hand, waiting for the dying sun to cast its amber glow on the old, weather-worn buildings. And I am never disappointed. The summer sun has a way of bringing out the beauty of this ancient seductress and I can never let her charms go unheeded.

So I dawdle, as my son says, and I gaze and I dream and I try to capture the fading beauty. It helps to while away the boredom of hot summer days. There’s always shade in these narrow streets and, somehow, it never feels quite as hot here as it does in other places. But that could be my imagination.

My infatuation with Mdina started a long time ago, probably when I was around 4. I went to school there for a number of years (I promise I will write about that very soon). I’ve literally been there thousands of times and yet, even though it has barely changed in all these years, each time I visit, I seem to discover a new facet of the place’s character. Perhaps I will make it my life-long ambition to record for posterity each window, each door, each building. It sounds like the perfect activity for sultry summer evenings. That, and quoting Byron to my surroundings. Yes, the heat does make us a little bit mad sometimes.

SHE walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies,

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meets in her aspect and her eyes

Thus mellow'd to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impair'd the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

George Gordon , Lord Byron, 1788–1824