Sometimes nature arouses the same feeling in me as the beauty of Tolkien’s writing:
Sing all ye joyful, now sing all together!
The wind’s in the tree-top, the wind’s in the heather;
The stars are in blossom, the moon is in flower,
And bright are the windows of night in her tower.
Dance all ye joyful, now dance all together!
Soft is the grass, and let foot be like feather!
The river is silver, the shadows are fleeting;
Merry is May-time, and merry our meeting.
Sigh no more pine, till the wind of the morn!
Fall Moon! Dark be the land!
Hush! Hush! Oak, ash and thorn!
Hushed by all water, till dawn is at hand!
All Ye Joyful by J. R. R. Tolkien
Don’t adventures ever have an end? I suppose not. Someone else always has to carry on the story.
A light exists in spring
Not present on the year
At any other period.
When March is scarcely here
A color stands abroad
On solitary hills
That science cannot overtake,
But human nature feels.
It waits upon the lawn;
It shows the furthest tree
Upon the furthest slope we know;
It almost speaks to me.
Then, as horizons step,
Or noons report away,
Without the formula of sound,
It passes, and we stay:
A quality of loss
Affecting our content,
As trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a sacrament.
A Light Exists in Spring by Emily Dickinson
I went to the forest to find the beautiful horses at Sandskreds Soe, the horse in this post is from my hike in December.
Nevertheless the hike was stunning with the light that gleamed in lakes and hills, grasses and trees
Det lykkedes mig ikke at finde de smukke heste ved Sandskreds Sø, hesten i dette indlæg er fra min vandretur i december.
Ikke desto mindre var vandreturen fantastisk med lyset, der skinnede i søer og bakker, græs og træer.
God tur pas på hinanden, og husk madpakken ❤
Winter came down to our home one night
Quietly pirouetting in on silvery-toed slippers of snow,
And we, we were children once again.
Bill Morgan, Jr.
The cold was our pride, the snow was our beauty. It fell and fell, lacing day and night together in a milky haze, making everything quieter as it fell, so that winter seemed to partake of religion in a way no other season did, hushed, solemn.
Go to the winter woods: listen there, look, watch, and “the dead months” will give you a subtler secret than any you have yet found in the forest.
Fiona Macleod, Where the Forest Murmurs