The Beauty of Literature

Good day! 

I'm currently in summer school at the Abbey as most of you know and I just wanted to let you in on a little tidbit of the joy that my imagination delights in through the gift of American literature. Imagine you are about to enter into a forest. You get out of your car or off your bike, walk up to the trailhead and upon a tree there rests a sign, crudely carved onto an old piece of driftwood. It reads: 

"Stranger, if thou hast learned a truth which needs

No school of long experience, that the world 

Is full of guilt and misery, and hast seen 

Enough of all its sorrows, crimes, and cares, 

To tire thee of it, enter this wild wood

And view the haunts of nature. The calm shade

Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze

That makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balm

To thy sick heart. Though wilt find nothing here

Of all that pained thee in the haunts of men, 

And made thee loathe thy life. The primal curse

Fell, it is true, upon the unsinning earth, 

But not in vengance. God hath yoked to guilt

Her pale tormentor, Misery. Hence these shades

Are still the abode of gladness; the thick roof 

Of green and stirring branches is alive 

And musical with birds, that sing and sport

In wantonness of spirit; while below

The squirrel, with raised paws and form erect, 

Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects in the shade 

Try their thin wings and dance in the warm beam. 

That waked them into life. Even the green trees

Partake the deep contentment; as they bend 

To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky 

Looks in and sheds a blessing on the scene. 

Scarce less the cleft-born wildflower seems to enjoy

Existence, than the winged plunderer

That sucks its sweets. The mossy rocks themselves, 

And the old and ponderous trunks of prostrate trees

That lead from knoll to knoll a causeway rude, 

Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots, 

With all their roots upon them, twisting high, 

Breathe fixed tranquility. The rivulet

Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o'er its bed

Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks

Seems, with continuous laughter, to rejoice

In its own being. Softly tread the marge, 

Lest from her midway perch thou scare the wren

That dips her bill in water. The cool wind, 

That stirs the stream in play, shall come to thee, 

Like one that loves thee nor will let thee pass

Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace.

Inscription for the Entrance to a Wood - William Cullen Bryant

If you had trouble reading it, go back and reread it. Read it according to the punctuation, not the line breaks. 

This poem brings me so much joy! Think of the rivulet (a small brook or stream) that "sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o'er its bed of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rock seems, with continuous laughter, to rejoice in its own being." WHOA! I spent last summer as a camp counselor and this poem takes me back to so many places and so many times when I sat upon rocks amidst the stream just listening to the river. God bless your day! I hope this poem brought you some peace or a much needed break from work. 

Matt