...about nature

BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

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.

Off on a Hike

His bag is packed,
his lunch - made up
thermos and map
and his favourite cup
Warm woollen socks
(to keep out the cold)
Thermal Fleece
(more precious than gold)
Wallet and Keys -
In a very safe place
and Binoculars -
to observe the wide space
Small First aid kit - in case of mishap
(he hopes wont happen - to this happy chap)
Doesn't need a car, a boat or a bike
Just a strong pair of boots
He's off on a Hike [IMG:http://allpoetry.com/s/images/smile/happy.gif]

Brian F Kirkham

"Nature" is what we see—
The Hill—the Afternoon—
Squirrel—Eclipse— the Bumble bee—
Nay—Nature is Heaven—
Nature is what we hear—
The Bobolink—the Sea—
Thunder—the Cricket—
Nay—Nature is Harmony—
Nature is what we know—
Yet have no art to say—
So impotent Our Wisdom is
To her Simplicity.

Emily Dickinson

Speaking of trees...


"For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them
when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even
more I revere them when they stand alone. They are like lonely persons.
Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like
great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche. In their highest
boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not
lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives
for one thing only: to fulfil themselves according to their own laws, to
build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier,
nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree. When a tree is
cut down and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, one can read its
whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk: in the rings
of its years, its scars, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the
sickness, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the
narrow years and the luxurious years, the attacks withstood, the storms
endured. And every young farmboy knows that the hardest and noblest wood
has the narrowest rings, that high on the mountains and in continuing
danger the most indestructible, the strongest, the ideal trees grow.


Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever
knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach
learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the
ancient law of life.


A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life. The attempt and the risk
that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and
veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and
the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the eternal
in my smallest special detail.


A tree says: My strength is trust. I know nothing about my fathers, I know nothing about the
thousand children that every year spring out of me. I live out the
secret of my seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. I trust
that God is in me. I trust that my labor is holy. Out of this trust I
live.


When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer,
then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me!
Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts.
Let God speak within you, and your thoughts will grow silent. You are
anxious because your path leads away from mother and home. But every
step and every day lead you back again to the mother. Home is neither
here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all.


A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind
at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this
longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of
escaping from one's suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a
longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for
life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth,
every step is death, every grave is mother.


So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts:
Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have
longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not
listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then
the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our
thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen
to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except
what he is. That is home. That is happiness.”

Hermann Hesse