March

A poem to the month of March, the herald of Spring, 

by William Morris 
  born on March 24th 1834

 Slayer of the winter, art thou here again?
O welcome, thou that's bring'st the summer nigh!
The bitter wind makes not thy victory vain,
Nor will we mock thee for thy faint blue sky.
Welcome, O March! whose kindly days and dry
Make April ready for the throstle's song,
Thou first redresser of the winter's wrong!

Yea, welcome March! and though I die ere June,
Yet for the hope of life I give thee praise,
Striving to swell the burden of the tune
That even now I hear thy brown birds raise,
Unmindful of the past or coming days;
Who sing: 'Oh joy! a new year is begun:
What happiness to look upon the sun!'

Ah, what begetteth all this storm of bliss
But death himself, who crying solemnly,
E'en from the heart of sweet Forgetfulness,
Bids us 'Rejoice, lest pleasureless ye die,
Within a little time must ye go by.
Stretch forth your open hands, and while ye live
Take all the gifts that Death and Life may give.'
 

(William Morris)

Beyond Ourselves

Meeting some ducks in Borrowdale, Cumbria

“A human being is a part of the whole called by us universe, a part limited in time and space.  He experiences himself, his thoughts and feeling as something separated from the rest, a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness.  This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us.  Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty.” 

(Albert Einstein)

Little Lambs

The cold bare hand of winter still grips the landscape but signs of new life are emerging as tiny buds begin to appear on the branches, and the daffodils and snowdrops sway in the sunlight.  Of all the indicators that spring is on the threshold, the sight of new-born lambs are surely the most endearing.

Yesterday, I stood and watched as five tiny lambs wobbled and teetered, trying to control and co-ordinate their long gangly legs and master the art of walking and running. They ran, skipped, jumped, bumped into each other, fell on the grass and their bleating sounded to me like childish laughter; young creatures enjoying being alive.  I could not help but smile and I walked home with spring in my heart.

Little Lamb, who made thee
Does thou know who made thee
Gave thee life & bid thee feed.
By the stream & o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing woolly bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice.
Making all the vales rejoice:
Little Lamb who made thee
Does thou know who made thee

Little Lamb I'll tell thee,
Little Lamb I'll tell thee;
He is called by thy name,
For he calls himself a Lamb:
He is meek & he is mild,
He became a little child
I a child & thou a lamb,
We are called by His name,
Little Lamb God bless thee,
Little Lamb God bless thee.

(William Blake)

Tennyson's Joy on Seeing Snowdrops

Many, many welcomes,
February fair-maid,
Ever as of old time,
Solitary firstling,
Coming in the cold time,
Prophet of the gay time,
Prophet of the May time,
Prophet of the roses,
Many, many welcomes,
February fair-maid!

Alfred Tennyson (1809 - 1892)

Edward Abbey on Greed

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0wc0BEcjlps

 

“The ugliest thing in America is greed, the lust for power and domination, the lunatic ideology of perpetual Growth - with a capital G. 'Progress' in our nation has for too long been confused with 'Growth'; I see the two as different, almost incompatible, since progress means, or should mean, change for the better - toward social justice, a livable and open world, equal opportunity and affirmative action for all forms of life. And I mean all forms, not merely the human. The grizzly, the wolf, the rattlesnake, the condor, the coyote, the crocodile, whatever, each and every species has as much right to be here as we do.” 

(Edward Abbey 1927-1989

Novelist, Essayist, Philosopher, Environmentalist)

 

The Need for National Parks

Looking down to Buttermere and Crummock Water on a hazy summer's day

 

 

“The tendency nowadays to wander in wilderness is delightful to see.  Thousands of tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilised people are beginning to findout that going to the mountains is going home; that wilderness is a necessity; that mountain parks and reservations are useful not only as fountains of timber and irrigating rivers, but as fountains of life.  Awakening from the stupefying effects of the vice of over-industry and the deadly apathy of luxury, they are trying as best they can to mix and enrich their own little ongoings with those of Nature, and to get rid of rust and disease.  Briskly venturing and roaming, some are washing off sins and cobweb cares of the devil’s spinning in all-day storms on mountains; sauntering in rosiny pinewoods or in gentian meadows, brushing through chaparral, bending down and parting sweet, flowery sprays; tracing rivers to their sources, getting in touch with the nerves of  Mother Earth; jumping from rock to rock, feeling the life of them, learning the songs of them, panting in whole-souled exercise, and rejoicing in deep, long-drawn breaths of pure wildness…Wander here a whole summer, if you can.  Thousands of God’s wild blessings will search you and soak you like a sponge and the big days will go by uncounted.”  

 

(John Muir) 

 

 River Esk flowing from its source among the Scafells