A few days ago we had a wonderful summer afternoon, with a cool breeze from the lake. Good to be out and about in old settings to check if they were as beautiful as remembered 😊🥰👏
I love to see the summer beaming forth And white wool sack clouds sailing to the north I love to see the wild flowers come again And mare blobs stain with gold the meadow drain And water lilies whiten on the floods Where reed clumps rustle like a wind shook wood Where from her hiding place the Moor Hen pushes And seeks her flag nest floating in bull rushes I like the willow leaning half way o’er The clear deep lake to stand upon its shore I love the hay grass when the flower head swings To summer winds and insects happy wings That sport about the meadow the bright day And see bright beetles in the clear lake play ~ John Clare
Some journeys are about a quest: An adventure, the magic of course, and about treasures and love. *
The Matterhorn German-American painter, Albert Bierstadt
The greatest gift of life on the mountain is time. Time to think or not think, read or not read, scribble or not scribble— to sleep and cook and walk in the woods, to sit and stare at the shapes of the hills. ~ Phillip Connors
Frühling am See Austrian painter, Alois Tott
You ask me why I dwell in the green mountain; I smile and make no reply for my heart is free of care. As the peach-blossom flows down stream and is gone into the unknown, I have a world apart that is not among men. Green Mountain ~ Li Bai
The Watzmann German Romantic landscape painter, Caspar David Friedrich
… From this hour, freedom! From this hour I ordain myself loosed of limits and imaginary lines, Going where I list—my own master, total and abso- lute, Listening to others, and considering well what they say, Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating, Gently, but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me.…
This spring came suddenly from day to day. Even the snowdrifts gave up the fight eventually. They lay boasting of the last snow, telling a story of an unexpectedly harsh winter. But maybe we haven’t seen the end of winter yet.
~ Thaw by Edward Thomas Over the land freckled with snow half-thawed The speculating rooks at their nests cawed And saw from elm-tops, delicate as flowers of grass, What we below could not see, Winter pass.