How sweet is the Shepherd's sweet lot!
From the morn to the evening he strays;
He shall follow his sheep all the day,
And his tongue shall be filled with praise.
For he hears the lamb's innocent call,
And he hears the ewe's tender reply;
He is watchful while they are in peace,
For they know when their Shepherd is nigh.
Grown about by Fragrant bushes,
Sunken in a winding valley,
Where the clear winds blow
And the shadows come and go,
And the cattle stand and low
And the sheep bells and the linnets
Sing and tinkle musically.
Between the past and the future,
Those two black infinities
Between which our brief life
Flashes a moment and goes out.
Stony & Frozen:
and yet there's something
the mind loves about
snowcapped mountains.
Something calming --
Maybe it's their stillness.
Maybe it's a nature sync.
Maybe it's that one is in
a green pasture with a
pleasant breeze and
sun warming one's face
as one looks upon those
harsh and barren lands.
Maybe it's awe at the proximity
of the inhospitable -- the uninhabitable --
lands, lands that seem so close
to one's idyllically habitable lands.
(If owing more to their grandiosity
than true proximity.)
rushing water cuts
through a bucolic scene;
yet, it's still calming.
In mountain meadows, bleating sheep abound, and green grass grows as high as their hunger allows -- about as high as cricket grounds, but I am lost in fantastic wonder. It seems to me this is a storied land, not merely grazing space, but where dragons once flew, and one might see giants, firsthand -- a place that's never known a plow 'r wagons. It's where magic must once have arisen, if ever such a place had existed -- where sparkling streams still burble and glisten whose secret is kept ever tightfisted. If you stumble into this storied realm don't let its siren sight overwhelm.
The clang of bells is all the din allowed
high within this remote mountain meadow.
Perhaps, a shepherd’s shout or a dog’s bark,
but only when a sheep has strayed too far.
So silent you smell flowers on the wind —
as senses seek some sign of life’s embrace.
Moreso, if you shut your eyes to the green
whose verdant rug stretches to azure skies.
Buttercups feather hillsides in yellow,
bare granite shoulders the grassy valley,
and cumulus clouds drift, low and lazy,
breaking up the cartel of blue and green.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 