The best remedy for
those who are afraid, lonely or unhappy is to go outside, somewhere where they
can be quiet, alone with the heavens, nature and God.
Because only then does
one feel that all is as it should be and that God wishes to see people happy, amidst
the simple beauty of nature.
As long as this exists, and
it certainly always will, I know that then there will always be comfort for
every sorrow, whatever the circumstances may be.
And I firmly believe that
nature brings solace in all troubles.
– Anne Frank.
There is a serene and
settled majesty to woodland scenery that enters into the soul and delights and
elevates it, and fills it with noble inclinations.
– Washington Irving.
Study nature, love
nature, stay close to nature. It will never fail you.
– Frank Lloyd Wright.
In all things of nature
there is something of the marvelous.
– Aristotle.
The care of the Earth is
our most ancient and most worthy, and after all our most pleasing responsibility.
To cherish what remains of it and to foster its renewal is our only hope.
– Wendell Berry.
Earth laughs in flowers.
– Ralph Waldo Emerson.
We need to find God, and
he cannot be found in noise and restlessness. God is the friend of silence. See
how nature – trees, flowers, grass – grows in silence; see the stars, the moon
and the sun, how they move in silence ... We need silence to be able to touch
souls.
The sky is overcast With a continuous cloud
of texture close, Heavy and wan, all
whitened by the Moon, Which through that veil
is indistinctly seen, A dull, contracted
circle, yielding light So feebly spread, that
not a shadow falls, Chequering the ground –
from rock, plant, tree, or tower. At length a pleasant
instantaneous gleam Startles the pensive
traveller while he treads His lonesome path, with
unobserving eye Bent earthwards; he
looks up – the clouds are split Asunder, – and above his
head he sees The clear Moon, and the
glory of the heavens. There, in a black-blue
vault she sails along, Followed by multitudes
of stars, that, small And sharp, and bright,
along the dark abyss Drive as she drives: how
fast they wheel away, Yet vanish not! – the
wind is in the tree, But they are silent; –
still they roll along Immeasurably distant;
and the vault, Built round by those
white clouds, enormous clouds, Still deepens its
unfathomable depth. At length the Vision
closes; and the mind, Not undisturbed by the
delight it feels, Which slowly settles
into peaceful calm, Is left to muse upon the
solemn scene.
From whence arrived the
praying mantis? From outer space, or
lost Atlantis? glimpse the grin, green
metal mug at masks the
pseudo-saintly bug, Orthopterous, also
carnivorous, And faintly whisper,
Lord deliver us.
Recommended reading:
The Best of Ogden Nash 548 Favorite Poems from America's
Laureate of Light Verse
Still and calm, In purple robes of
kings, The low-lying mountains
sleep at the edge of the world. The forests cover them
like mantles; Day and night Rise and fall over them
like the wash of waves. Asleep, they reign. Silent, they say all. Hush me, O slumbering
mountains – Send me dreams.
Harriet Monroe
December 23, 1860 –
September 26, 1936
Video by Jack Kost 2025
Blue Ridge Mountains (2019) Photographs by Jack
Kost.
Sound effect credit: Forest wind and birds by freesound_community from Pixabay.
To dreamy languors and
the violet mist Of early Spring, the
deep sequestered vale Gives first her
paling-blue Miamimist, Where blithely pours the
cuckoo’s annual tale Of Summer promises and tender
green, Of a new life and beauty
yet unseen. The forest trees have
yet a sighing mouth, Where dying winds of
March their branches swing, While upward from the
dreamy, sunny South, A hand invisible leads
on the Spring. His rounds from bloom to
bloom the bee begins With flying song, and
cowslip wine he sups, Where to the warm and
passing southern winds, Azaleas gently swing
their yellow cups. Soon everywhere, with
glory through and through, The fields will spread
with every brilliant hue. But high o’er all the
early floral train, Where softness all the
arching sky resumes, The dogwood dancing to
the winds’ refrain, In stainless glory
spreads its snowy blooms.
Long the road, Till Love came down it! Dark the life, Till Love did crown it! Dark the life, And long the road, Till Love came To share the load! For the touch Of Love transfigures All the road And all its rigours. Life and Death, Love’s touch
transfigures. Life and Death And all that lies In between, Love sanctifies. Once the heavenly spark
is lighted, Once in love two hearts
united, Nevermore Shall aught that was be As before.
Recommended reading:
Bees in Amber: A Little
Book of Thoughtful Verse
by John Oxenham.
Picture:
The Road Ahead (2019)
By Jack Kost
Video by Jack Kost 2025
Music credit: Softer Love By Clavier-Music From Pixabay
As I went out a Crow In a low voice said,
“Oh, I was looking for you. How do you do? I just came to tell you To tell Lesley (will you?) That her little Bluebird Wanted me to bring word That the north wind last
night That made the stars
bright And made ice on the
trough Almost made him cough His tail feathers off. He just had to fly! But he sent her Good-by, And said to be good, And wear her red hood, And look for skunk
tracks In the snow with an ax – And do everything! And perhaps in the
spring He would come back and
sing.”
Recommended reading:
Robert Frost: Collected
Poems, Prose, & Plays
Video by Jack Kost 2025
Music credit:
Cold October – Soft
Piano Music By Clavier-Music From Pixabay
Poem by Edgar Allan Poe. Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and
weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. “‘Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber
door – Only this, and nothing more.” Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the
floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost
Lenore – For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore
– Nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple
curtain Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt
before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood
repeating, “‘Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door – Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; This it is, and nothing more.” Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, “Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber
door, That I scarce was sure I heard you” – here I opened wide
the door; Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there
wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream
before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no
token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore!” This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”
– Merely this, and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me
burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window
lattice: Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore
– Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; ‘Tis the wind and nothing more.” Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of
yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or
stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber
door – Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door – Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore. “Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art
sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly
shore – Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian
shore!” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.” Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so
plainly, Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door
– Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber
door, With such name as “Nevermore.” But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke
only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did
outpour. Nothing further then he uttered – not a feather then he
fluttered – Till I scarcely more than muttered, “other friends have
flown before – On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown
before.” Then the bird said, “Nevermore.” Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, “Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and
store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden
bore – Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of ‘Never – nevermore’.” But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and
bust and door; Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore – What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird
of yore Meant in croaking “Nevermore.” This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s
core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease
reclining On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o’er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating
o’er, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen
censer Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted
floor. “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee – by these
angels he hath sent thee Respite – respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of
Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost
Lenore!” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.” “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird
or devil! – Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here
ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted – On this home by horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore – Is there – is there balm in Gilead? – tell me – tell me, I
implore!” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.” “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil – prophet still, if bird
or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us – by that God we both
adore – Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant
Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore
– Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name
Lenore.” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.” “Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend,” I
shrieked, upstarting – “Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian
shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath
spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! – quit the bust above my
door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off
my door!” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.” And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is
sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is
dreaming, And the lamplight o’er him streaming throws his shadow on
the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the
floor Shall be lifted – nevermore! Recommended reading:
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