this landscape that unfold before me
is never one i dare traverse, or with
my eyes traverse too long:
the shallows and crests of
tawny hills that rise and fall and
break upon the forest where
the silent sparrow sleeps –
i dare not pull a harrow through
these fields, lest i want
them harrowed – the folds and
steppes and valleys and the
bush’ed trail on the plateau that
gently rises as gentle gusts
reveal the north. ah –
no thickets there against that cliff;
so hardly a cliff for one so
gentle could not be a slope!
perched upon its precipice is
none but an unpicked rose that,
says my mind, surely draws its
humour from the earthy pools so
filled with mirth and health that
oh how i love this land –
how i love it! its quakes
rock me to sleep and to wake again,
and to remember where there is blood;
in which vein there is blood to spare.
but in which of its parts do i love
it best – its two ranges with
gardens hung, or the place from
where it issues life? nay, surely
i love it best when i hear its
sounds and wonder where they come from!
these forests, hardly woods that
ran about a spring, are nothing –
and that spring is nothing.
oh how i love this land,
how i love the treasures i
cannot see or fathom!
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