Reading Byron’s descriptions of Nature in the third canto of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, I remembered a poem I had written a few years ago, on mountains. They bear few similarities, though are both inspired by Swiss landscapes – mine was written after seeing the Eiger, Mönch, and Jungfrau. --- Is this a mountain that I see before me? So vast and powerful its face. It rises from the earth below me, Cemented in history’s trace. In summer when the weather’s fair, It flourishes with life and leaf. In winter when its front is bare, It stands resistant to insidious grief. Sunshine and blue sky are best For mirthful and sweet disposition, But earthquake is the final test Of mountains’ sturdy disposition. In shrieking gales and howling rain, When lightning splinters our soft core, The mountains stand to entertain This bleating that they’ve heard before. The solid stump is evidence Of many centuries of pain endured. Yet sharp and creviced stony peaks Attest to readiness for more. But rains will end and sunshine come And hardened face will turn from stone. And tender greens will whisper out, Breathing new life to hardened bone. While frozen evils strike the land, And petrify each living thing, The inner stump will surely stand, Awaiting warmth for flowering. It’s no small wonder, then, to turn To these great palaces of rock; Through times of ravages and mourn, And other feats of absent luck, They’ll shed like feathers their adorn, And still maintain their stalwart stock. -OD Speaking of nature and humans, whether we are internal or external to nature, whether nature is with or without us, well, John Muir writes in his journal something as simple as profound.
"I went out for a walk", he writes, "and finally concluded to stay out till sundown, for going out, was really going in." John Muir, Journal (1901) That would mean that the more we go outdoors the more we get attuned to our interiority. Maybe that keeps us in (or away) from life happening beyond the room of our own. |
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May 2018
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