The hills in the Hielands…

Today’s picture by Steve Carter is a fantastic view of Strathcarron on the scenic railway line between Inverness and Kyle of Lochalsh (http://stevecarter.com)

  This poem by Alexander Anderson (1845-1909) paints an attractive picture of Highland hills, contrasting them with city streets. Anderson had a mixture of occupations, at times working in the open-air working on railway tracks and at other times as a librarian in Edinburgh University.

The hills in the Hielands are bonnie, 
    Wi’ the licht an’ the shadow at play; 
An’ the winds that mak’ redder the heather 
    Far up on the cliff an’ the brae. 
The white clouds are floatin’ abune them, 
    Like snawdrifts that never can fa’, 
The hills in the Hielands are bonnie, 
    The hills in the Hielands are braw!

The streets o’ the city grow weary 
    For want o’ the glint an’ the sheen; 
An’ the wast wind has never a murmur 
    O’ woods that are wavin’ wi’ green: 
But O, for the bound o’ the red deer, 
    An’ the curlew that bugles to a'; 
The hills in the Hielands are bonnie, 
    The hills in the Hielands are braw.

I sigh for the roar o’ the river 
    Far down in the depths o’ the glen, 
The rush an’ the whirr o’ the blackcock 
    As he springs frae the side o’ the ben; 
For the sweep o’ the sky-cleavin’ eagle, 
    Whose wings are the bounds o’ his law– 
The hills in the Hielands are bonnie, 
    The hills in the Hielands are braw.

Then, O, to be up in the Hielands, 
    Where the winds draw not bridle nor stay; 
Where the forests are tossing their banners, 
    An’ the breckans are thick on the brae. 
Where the loch lies in shadow or sunshine, 
    Or leaps to the winds as they blaw; 
The hills in the Hielands are bonnie, 
    The hills in the Hielands are braw.

Before the squall

Stevenson beach, by Dylan Walker. Wonderfully dramatic image for today.

  
The wind is rising on the sea, 
The windy white foam-dancers leap; 
And the sea moans uneasily, 
And turns to sleep, and cannot sleep. 

Ridge after rocky ridge uplifts, 
Wild hands, and hammers at the land, 
Scatters in liquid dust, and drifts 
To death among the dusty sand. 

On the horizon’s nearing line, 
Where the sky rests, a visible wall, 
Grey in the offing, I divine, 
The sails that fly before the squall. 

Before the squall (Arthur Symons)

Stress Reliever

Got this yesterday, to rediscover my inner artist and to help me unwind. And it seems to fit with this poem called Colour, by Christina Rossetti.

  

What is pink? a rose is pink 
By a fountain’s brink. 
What is red? a poppy’s red 
In its barley bed. 
What is blue? the sky is blue 
Where the clouds float thro’. 
What is white? a swan is white 
Sailing in the light. 
What is yellow? pears are yellow, 
Rich and ripe and mellow. 
What is green? the grass is green, 
With small flowers between. 
What is violet? clouds are violet 
In the summer twilight. 
What is orange? Why, an orange, 

Just an orange!