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
“How do you like to go up in a swing, Up in the air so blue? Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing Ever a child can do! Up in the air and over the wall, Till I can see so wide, River and trees and cattle and all Over the countryside…” ~ Robert Louis Stevenson, The Swing
The build of De Connick
The old garden with pond and frogs!
“I like this place and could willingly waste my time in it.” ~ William Shakespeare
A missing boat!
“There are moments, above all on June evenings, when the lakes that hold our moons are sucked into the earth, and nothing is left but wine and the touch of a hand.” ~ Charles Morgan
Then something Tookish woke up inside him, and he wished to go and see the great mountains, and hear the pine-trees and the waterfalls, and explore the caves, and wear a sword instead of a walking-stick.
J.R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit or There and Back Again
The Spirit of Poetry
There is a quiet spirit in these woods,
That dwells where’er the gentle south-wind blows;
Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade,
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.
With what a tender and impassioned voice
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,
When the fast ushering star of morning comes O’er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf; Or when the cowled and dusky-sandalled Eve, In mourning weeds, from out the western gate, Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves
In the green valley, where the silver brook,
From its full laver, pours the white cascade;
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,
Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter.
And frequent, on the everlasting hills,
Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself
In all the dark embroidery of the storm,
And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid
The silent majesty of these deep woods, lts presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades.
For them there was an eloquent voice in all The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun, The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way…