HANNA'S WALK

Hope

‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers – That perches in the soul – And sings the tune without the words – And never stops – at all – And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –… Read More

When bright flowers bloom …

When bright flowers bloom Parchment crumbles, my words fade The pen has dropped … Morpheus

Exploring

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,… Read More

Summer in the light …

It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade. Charles Dickens

On A Hot Summer Day

Messing about in boats is a meaningful occupation on a hot summer day 🙂 All this he saw, for one moment breathless and intense, vivid on the morning sky; and still, as he looked, he lived; and still,… Read More

The Spirit of Poetry by Longfellow

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…

The old Thorn

There is a Thorn,—it looks so old, In truth, you’d find it hard to say How it could ever have been young, It looks so old and gray. Not higher than a two years child It stands erect,… Read More

A walk in Fairy Land

Spring is full of poetry. This is one of my favourite poems by William Shakespeare Over hill, over dale, Thorough bush, thorough brier, Over park, over pale, Thorough flood, thorough fire, I do wander everywhere, Swifter than the… Read More

Go through that door –

As you sit on the hillside, or lie prone under the trees of the forest, or sprawl wet-legged by a mountain stream, the great door, that does not look like a door, opens. Stephen Graham