he is by nature led to peace

it's saturday morning.

so i'll indulge

your pleasure

and your patience

and share this longer piece

with you.

time needs to be ignored

for this

to truly

bring its advantages

to you.

~

there are advantages to growing older.

recognizing them for what they are is one feature of my unfolding life.

william wordsworth wrote about some of the advantages of growing older in his poem,

"a sketch".

the little hedge-row birds

that peck along the road, regard him not.

he travels on, and in his face, his step,

his gait, is one expression; every limb,

his look and bending figure, all bespeak

a man who does not move with pain, but moves

with thought--he is insensibly subdued

to settled quiet: he is one by whom

all effort seems forgotten, one to whom

long patience has such mild composure given,

that patience now doth seem a thing, of which

he hath no need. he is by nature led

to peace so perfect, that the young behold

with envy, what the old man hardly feels.

ivan kramskoy "the beekeeper"

i liked the feel of this man so i went for a walk with him.

the house was surrounded by ancient sycamores

which had always been allowed to grow naturally.

under the shelter of the trees, the shade developed

a thick grass beneath which seeped the overflow of

a broad spring....

e. pozdnekov "the little courtyard"

as we walked, he sang a song to himself.

"as i walked forth one summer's day,

to view the meadows green and gay

a pleasant bower i espied

standing fast by the river side,

and in't a maiden i heard cry:

alas! alas! there's none e'er loved as i."

(from "as i walked forth" by robert johnson)

soon we came upon harvesters.

we heard them talking and singing long before we passed

through a space in the hedgerow and into their field.

they walked together in the same direction through the grass.

the scythes all went together and the grass fell. they were surrounded

by the yellow grass. the tops of the grass with their grains and plumes

frothed lightly like foam on water, reflecting the sun.

john constable the wheatfield

our walk took us past farms. at one a weaver was at work.

the handles of the warp rods clicked. the shuttle hissed as it left the right hand,

struck the left hand; hissed upon leaving it, struck the right hand. the comb bar

struck heavily against the growing woollen cloth. the beam creaked

from time to time as it turned. and all those sounds were repeated,

one after the other, each in its place, without ever failing,

for each one did a definite work.

frederick carlton an old farm surrey

the heat of the day was soon broken by the cool murmur of the water meadows

"water meadows" edward wilkins-waite

at the edge of the pond there was a wide border of thinly sown rushes,

washed by a shallow overflow; a sort of half swamp. at the place where

the rush sprang from the water, it wore a little reddish-brown

ring. it was the image of the water, it was like an aureole, it was

all colours; it trembled and mixed the colours . . . .

i.i. levitan a neglected pond

we crossed the river by a small stone bridge. stopping in the middle

to gaze into its slow-swirling deep green mysterious depths.

he saw great immersed vines, fierce and supple as snakes, and as if made of

dream wood, so powerful that they had risen to within two fingers' breadth

of the surface, yet seemed rooted in the deepest reaches . . .

their leaves were broad and light

david bates on the way to nafford: a footbridge

soon we came to a village. we stopped before entering and the beekeeper turned to me and said;

there is one thing that i do not believe; that is that anyone deliberately

wants us to be unhappy. i think that things were made so that everybody can be happy.

henry john yeend-king woolhampton on the kennet

we passed through the village without stopping and soon left it behind

as the sun was setting and it was coming on to evening . . .

george vicat cole summer evening

we rounded the corner where the old man's home waited quiet and kind . . . .

he turned to me and said ...

one single joy and the world is still worthwhile

edward wilkins-waite end of the day

the moon rose amidst the pale salmon streamers of a lingering sunset.

its pale tangerine light washed gently over the hushed river and fields.

we lay down in the long cool grass at the edge of the farmhouse clearing.

the earth smelt of mushrooms and the scent of anise that comes from

the roots of all trees. from time to time a golden fly crossed the darkness

and its light went out beneath the moon.

edward wilkins-waite an autumn moonrise

the beekeeper slowly and deliberately stood up and turned back towards the house.

he went to his cellar. it was closed by a stone door. inside there was a room.

he entered. it was cool and smelt of roots. in the darkness he knew where to

find the dipper. it was a big bowl carved from a birch block. he held it under the

spigot and filled it. he drank it at a gulp. in his mouth was the taste of wine. new

wine made a month ago with the grapes of twenty rows of poor vines. although

it was new, it was ripe. no longer sweet. all the sweetness of the wine was changed

into tartness on the tongue and into a warmth that suddenly flamed within him.

"life is beautiful," he said.

(all italicized words unless otherwise indicated from) "joy of man's desiring" jean giono