January 4, 2019

S L A T E S_

slate_ a coarse stone tablet

S L A T E S_

_midwinter spring is its own season... sempiternal though sodden towards sundown... suspended in time, between pole and tropic... when the short day is brightest, with frost and fire... the brief sun flames the ice, on pond and ditches... in windless cold that is the heart's heat... reflecting in a watery mirror... a glare that is blindness in the early afternoon... and glow more intense than blaze of branch, or brazier... stirs the dumb spirit: no wind, but pentecostal fire...


shell_

The soul is no traveller; the wise man stays at home, and when his necessities, his duties, on any occasion call him from his house, or into foreign lands, he is at home still, and shall make men sensible by the expression of his countenance, that he goes the missionary of wisdom and virtue, and visits cities and men like a sovereign, and not like an interloper or a valet.


shanty_

...for our houses are such unwieldy property that we are often imprisoned rather than housed in them; and the bad neighborhood to be avoided is our own scurvy selves. I know one or two families, at least, in this town, who, for nearly a generation, have been wishing to sell their houses in the outskirts and move into the village, but have not been able to accomplish it, and only death will set them free.


sheave_

...everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where nature may heal and give strength to body and soul... when we contemplate the whole globe as one great dewdrop, striped and dotted with continents and islands, flying through space with other stars all singing and shining together as one, the whole universe appears as an infinite storm of beauty...


...a people without history is not redeemed from time... we shall not cease from exploration and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time... through the unknown, unremembered gate when the last of earth left to discover is that which was the beginning; at the source of the longest river the voice of the hidden waterfall, and the children in the apple-tree...