Timeless sea breezes, sea-wind of the night: you come for no one; if someone should wake, he must be prepared how to survive you… ~ Rainer Maria Rilke
A Danish painter Laurits Tuxen (1853–1927) The North Sea in stormy weather. After sunset. Højen.
The picture below text conjured up lovely days by the sea in the month of May years ago. We went on excursions in the forest and on the beach. We only used the rented house to sleep in. The fresh sea air, the smell of sand and the spicy sweetness of resin from the pine trees. The scents are missing from the picture, but when I close my eyes, the scents meet me as if I were walking through the forest on my way to the sea.
Nature’s first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf’s a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.
Still round the corner there may wait A new road or a secret gate And though I oft have passed them by A day will come at last when I Shall take the hidden paths that run West of the Moon, East of the Sun. ~ J.R.R. Tolkien
These are folios of April, All the library of spring, Missals gilt and rubricated With the frost’s illumining. Ruthless, we destroy these treasures, Set the torch with hand profane— Gone, like Alexandrian vellums, Like the books of burnt Louvain! Yet these classics are immortal: O collectors, have no fear, For the publisher will issue New editions every year. ~ Burning Leaves, November by Christopher Morley
A few days ago I walked along the edge of the lake and was treated to the crunch and rustle of leaves with each step I made. The acoustics of this season are different and all sounds, no matter how hushed, are as crisp as autumn air. ~ Eric Sloane
What does the cup of ocean hold? Glory of purple and glint of gold; Tenderest greens and heavenly blue, Shot with the sunlight through and through; Wayward ripples that idly roam. Tumbling breakers with gallant foam; Sands and pebbles that chase and slide; Mystic currents that softly glide; Mighty spell of the ages old, This does the cup of ocean hold…
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made: Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee; And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet’s wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey, I hear it in the deep heart’s core.
Find your own special hideaway
A meadow where swallows are practising on their long flight to Africa
A faerie forest where you can go for a walk and get lost among elves
A cove by the sea where you can go for a late night swim
A secret cave where you can seek shelter for the storm
Or a lovely lake where you can catch a fish for your dinner
The possibilities are endless and the only limit is your imagination
I came across wonderful poetry by Daniel March written in 1869 and found it to be a religious text. That is not my reason for quoting the poetry, but because the description reminds me of the overwhelming joy it is, to walk in nature. When the clouds cast their shadows over hills and rivers, mountains and lakes in an ever-changing game. The poetry of nature.
Clouds over Arresø, the largest lake in Denmark
Clouds are among the most striking appearances in the natural world. Whether heralding the dawn with beacons of flame and banners of gold, or escorting the sun’s descending car with armies of light and sapphire thrones; whether clothing the mountains with garments of beauty, or enriching the landscape with flying shadows; whether shading the weary from the noonday heat, refreshing the field and the garden with gentle showers, or shaking the earth with mighty thunders; whether moving in silent and solitary grandeur along the blue deep of the sky, or covering the whole heavens with black and jagged masses, torn by the tempest and hurled onward like charging hosts in the shock of battle,—glorious in the morning, grateful at noonday, prophetic of the dawn at evening, clouds lend a charm to every landscape, a diversity to every season and a lesson to every thoughtful mind. No earthly scene could attract us long if deprived of light and shade from the changing clouds, and with our present feelings we should find it hard to be satisfied with heaven itself if it be one unvaried, cloudless noon. ~Daniel March, “The Balancings of the Clouds,” Our Father’s House, or the Unwritten Word, 1869
HANNA'S WALK 
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