A Nocturnal Reverie
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#3 A Nocturnal Reverie
In such a night, when every louder wind
Is to its distant cavern safe confined;
And only gentle Zephyr fans his wings,
And lonely Philomel, still waking, sings;
Or from some tree, famed for the owl's delight,
She, hollowing clear, directs the wand'rer right:
In such a night, when passing clouds give place,
Or thinly veil the heav'ns' mysterious face;
When in some river, overhung with green,
The waving moon and trembling leaves are seen;
When freshened grass now bears itself upright,
And makes cool banks to pleasing rest invite,
Whence springs the woodbind, and the bramble-rose,
And where the sleepy cowslip sheltered grows;
Whilst now a paler hue the foxglove takes,
Yet checkers still with red the dusky brakes
When scattered glow-worms, but in twilight fine,
Shew trivial beauties watch their hour to shine;
Whilst Salisb'ry stands the test of every light,
In perfect charms, and perfect virtue bright:
When odors, which declined repelling day,
Through temp'rate air uninterrupted stray;
When darkened groves their softest shadows wear,
And falling waters we distinctly hear;
When through the gloom more venerable shows
Some ancient fabric, awful in repose,
While sunburnt hills their swarthy looks conceal,
And swelling haycocks thicken up the vale:
When the loosed horse now, as his pasture leads,
Comes slowly grazing through th' adjoining meads,
Whose stealing pace, and lengthened shade we fear,
Till torn-up forage in his teeth we hear:
When nibbling sheep at large pursue their food,
And unmolested kine rechew the cud;
When curlews cry beneath the village walls,
And to her straggling brood the partridge calls;
Their shortlived jubilee the creatures keep,
Which but endures, whilst tyrant man does sleep;
When a sedate content the spirit feels,
And no fierce light disturbs, whilst it reveals;
But silent musings urge the mind to seek
Something, too high for syllables to speak;
Till the free soul to a composedness charmed,
Finding the elements of rage disarmed,
O'er all below a solemn quiet grown,
Joys in th' inferior world, and thinks it like her own:
In such a night let me abroad remain,
Till morning breaks, and all's confused again;
Our cares, our toils, our clamors are renewed,
Or pleasures, seldom reached, again pursued.
Now nature is not at variance with art, nor art with nature; they being
both the servants of his providence. Art is the perfection of nature. Were
the world now as it was the sixth day, there were yet a chaos. Nature hath
made one world, and art another. In brief, all things are artificial; for
nature is the art of God.
The human mind is not capable of grasping the Universe. We are like a
little child entereing a huge library. The walls are covered to the ceilings
with books in many different tongues. The child knows that someone must have
written these books. It does not know who or how. It does not understand the
languages in which they are written. But the child notes a definite plan in
the arrangement of books--a mysterious order which it does not comprehend,
but only dimly suspects. Albert Einstein
I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only
the essentail facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to
teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. Henry
David Thoreau
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This grand show is eternal. It is always sunrise somewhere; the dew is
never all dried at once; a shower is forever falling; vapor ever rising.
Eternal sunrise, eternal sunset, eternal dawn and gloaming, on seas and
continents and islands, each in its turn, as the round earth rolls.
John Muir
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