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Cerealia/Tellus/Celtic tree month of Saille commences

The old Roman festival of the goddess Tellus, often called Tellus Mater, Mother Earth, is traditionally devoted to prayer for the continued health of our environment. Tellus is the matron goddess of all environmentalists.

— The Pagan Book Of Days, Nigel Pennick

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If you truly love nature, you will find beauty everywhere.
— Vincent van Gogh
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1802 April 15: William Wordsworth and his sister see a “long belt” of daffodils which brings about his poem “I Wandered Lonely As a Cloud.” It speaks to not only of the joys of Nature but how we then hold those joys with us, to feed us, when we are going through our daily lives. Like all relationships, ours with Nature does not end when she is out of sight.

 

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God’s Grandeur — Gerard Manley Hopkins
[me reading this poem aloud]
The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
     It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
     It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
     And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
     And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can food feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
     There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
     Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
     World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
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Sunset — Rainer Maria Rilke
Slowly the west reaches for clothes of new colors
which it passes to a row of ancient trees.
You look, and soon these two worlds both leave you
one part climbs toward heaven, one sinks to earth.

leaving you, not really belonging to either,
not so hopelessly dark as that house that is silent,
not so unswervingly given to the eternal as that thing
that turns to a star each night and climbs-

leaving you (it is impossible to untangle the threads)
your own life, timid and standing high and growing,
so that, sometimes blocked in, sometimes reaching out,
one moment your life is a stone in you, and the next, a star.

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The Birthplace — Robert Frost
Here further up the mountain slope
Than there was every any hope,
My father built, enclosed a spring,
Strung chains of wall round everything,
Subdued the growth of earth to grass,
And brought our various lives to pass.
A dozen girls and boys we were.
The mountain seemed to like the stir,
And made of us a little while-
With always something in her smile.
Today she wouldn’t know our name.
(No girl’s, of course, has stayed the same.)
The mountain pushed us off her knees.
And now her lap is full of trees.
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Your job is to go to the place that you want to stop at every day because the trees tell you too. That’s your job: to leave in time to be able to stop there near the trees. And let them tell you the story of the storms they endured, the drought, the spring, the cold. And it’s all about being in that place where you can feel it all. Not one thing but it all.
They can tell you how to do lots of things if you listen very closely. — T.S.

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