But a weed is simply a plant that wants to grow where people want something else. In blaming nature, people mistake the culprit. Weeds are people’s idea, not nature’s.
“If men had wings and bore black feathers, few of them would be clever enough to be crows.”
Rev.Henry Ward Beecher mid 1800’s (“Bird Brains”)
A master can tell you what he expects of you.
A teacher, though, awakens your own expectations.
You cannot hunt partridges with a band of music; noise in the wrong place turns success into failure.
When the treasure chest is open, even the just man sins.
“There are many humorous things in the world; among them, the white man’s notion that he is less savage than the other savages.”
― Mark Twain,
They might be rumoured among those who see to it that gravity operates and that time stays separate from space. Call them auditors. Auditors of reality.
“Cherubs fan our foolish fires, filling hearts with mad desires. They prick our pride and haughtiness with quick, angelic naughtiness.”
― John Biccard
“There is no more sagacious animal than the Icelandic horse. He is stopped by neither snow, nor storm, nor impassable roads, nor rocks, glaciers, or anything. He is courageous, sober, and surefooted. He never makes a false step, never shies. If there is a river or fjord to cross (and we shall meet with many) you will see him plunge in at once, just as if he were amphibious, and gain the opposite bank.”
― Jules Verne,
It was the mountain
I was always going to climb —
Swore that heat would not tire me,
Flowers and snakes could not
Poison my hands or feet:
Butcher-birds and crows become
Omens of good fortune, guides
To an undergrowth track.
Spurred on by the sight
Of the mountain, hill after hill
I climbed for a vantage point:
Felt the ice of a willow’s breath,
Touched the fire that does not burn
In a flame-tree’s midday leaves.
Its summits clouded in mist
Or the end-of-spring fires,
I walked through ploughed fields
To its foot-hills, chewed
Grass and swallowed rain-water,
Gauging its height from burnt-out stumps.
Cattle followed like a scattered procession,
Pausing at the creek.
I returned home
By a different path — plagued by
Its shape and my hesitation.
Under the cover of sunset
I opened my door to its shadow —
Abysmal at the threshold!
Prayed that winds and rain
Might wash it backwards, into
The desert overnight.
Talking to people, trailing
Mullet and catfish,
Searching creek-banks for rainbow-birds
And tortoises — day and night
The mountain haunted me
Like a dying parent’s curse.
It became the wish
I never made—the child I never had,
Promise I was not to keep,
Bible I should never open:
Tomorrow’s mountain, always there,
To be climbed without loss and fear.
Unsifted by memory for the shallows of a dream
I left the mountain like gold in a stream.