missing my north a lot today. maybe i will travel there again sometime soon. what stays with me are not the blizzards, nor the cold, nor the darkness.
this is an excerpt from gerald manley hopkins’s nightingale (1986) that to me, at this present instant, describes well my current feeling of memories unsubtly emerging inside the museum of unconditional surrender.
For he began at once and shook
My head to hear. He might have strung
A row of ripples in the brook,
So forcibly he sung,
The mist upon the leaves have strewed,
And danced the balls of dew that stood
In acres all above the wood.