Träumen in der Morgendämmerung

Träumen in der Morgendämmerung
A Journey Through the Pastoral Psyche of German Progressive Folk

What will you do, God, when I die? 

I am your jar (if cracked, I lie?) 

Your well-spring (if the well go dry?) 

I am your craft, your vesture I— 

You lose your purport, losing me. 

When I go, your cold house will be 

Empty of words that made it sweet. 

I am the sandals your bare feet 

Will seek and long for, wearily. 

Your cloak will fall from aching bones. 

Your glance, that my warm cheeks have cheered 

As with a cushion long endeared, 

Will wonder at a loss so weird; 

And, when the sun has disappeared, 

Lie in the lap of alien stones. 

What will you do, God? I am feared. 

Vineyard, pasture, old apple orchard, 

field that misses no spring, 

fig tree that even in ground as hard as marble 

bears fruit a hundredfold: 

Scent exudes from Your round branches. 

And You do not ask if I am watchful; 

fearless, dissolved in juices, 

Your depths rise quietly past me.

Rainer Maria Rilke (1875 – 1926) 

From: The Book of Monastic Life (1899) 

Translated by B. Deutsch, A. Yarmolinsky, and C.L. Cingolani 

“Träumen in der Morgendämmerung” (Dreaming at Dawn) is not merely a compilation; it is an invitation to drift through the mist-veiled landscapes of German progressive folk and kosmische music, where poetry, protest, and pastoral beauty merge in luminous harmony.

Opening with the melancholic introspection of Hölderlin’s “Waren wir”, the journey begins in the half-light of memory and reflection. From there, we set out with Witthüser & Westrupp, whose warm acoustic textures and gentle psychedelia in “Lasst uns auf die Reise gehn” encourage us to wander, spiritually untethered.

The spectral reverie continues with Bröselmaschine’s “Gedanken”, a raga-tinged meditation that blurs the lines between inner thought and outer space. Carol of Harvest follows with “Put on Your Nightcap”, an English-language lullaby draped in melancholic electric folk, further deepening the dream.

A playful interlude arrives in Ougenweide’s “Der Fuchs und der Rabe”, whose medieval folk-rock retelling of Aesop's fable injects whimsy and charm. Emtidi’s “Touch the Sun” then lifts us into celestial realms with crystalline vocals and synth-laced serenity, before Gila’s “This Morning” steers us into a darker, more experimental awakening; quietly intense and emotionally raw.

Zupfgeigenhansel’s “Es dunkelt schon in der Heide” roots us again in folk tradition, a haunting evocation of twilight fading into night. Hölderlin’s “Requiem für einen Wicht” follows, echoing with poetic gravitas, a lament not just for the small or forgotten, but for the fragile spirit of a fading era.

The penultimate stretch brings social commentary wrapped in theatrical funk-folk via Floh de Cologne’s “Sei ruhig, Fliessbandbaby”, a sharp yet playful critique of industrial life. Emma Myldenberger’s “Unter der Linden” then unfurls like an ancient ballad rediscovered, its winding woodwinds and modal melodies casting a spell of tranquil nostalgia.

Finally, Denise Krüger’s “Hier lebst du” offers a quiet conclusion; an intimate, grounded reflection on presence and place, sung as if whispered into the first light of dawn.

Together, these twelve pieces form a lucid, undulating soundscape; a dreamscape where the utopian visions, earthy harmonies, and poetic souls of 1970s German folk-prog commune. It is a world best entered slowly, with open ears and a quiet heart.

Ida Rentoul Outhwaite (1888–1960)

Ida Rentoul Outhwaite (1888–1960) was one of Australia’s most beloved illustrators, best known for her enchanting depictions of fairies, elves, and the natural world. Her work helped shape early 20th-century Australian children’s literature and remains admired for its delicate beauty and imaginative charm.

Born Ida Sherbourne Rentoul in Melbourne, she grew up in a creative and literary family. Her father, the Reverend Dr. John Laurence Rentoul, was a noted Presbyterian minister and academic, and her sister, Annie R. Rentoul, became a writer. The two sisters often collaborated; Annie writing the stories and Ida illustrating them. From a young age, Ida showed remarkable artistic talent; her first published illustration appeared when she was just 15.

Outhwaite rose to prominence during the Edwardian and interwar periods, when fairy art and children’s fantasy were enjoying great popularity. Her illustrations often featured ethereal fairy figures nestled in distinctly Australian landscapes; among gum trees, native flowers, and animals like koalas and kookaburras. This blend of European fairy imagery with Australian flora and fauna gave her work a unique identity.

Some of her most famous works include “Elves and Fairies” (1916), “The Enchanted Forest” (1921), “Fairyland” (1926), and “The Little Green Road to Fairyland” (1922). These books combined her luminous pen-and-ink drawings and watercolours with stories by her sister Annie or other collaborators. Elves and Fairies in particular was a landmark; one of the first large-format art books printed in Australia, and an expensive luxury edition at the time, now highly collectible.

In 1909, Ida married Arthur Grenbry Outhwaite, who became both her supporter and a frequent collaborator; some works were credited jointly to “Grenbry and Ida Rentoul Outhwaite.” Together they had four children, who occasionally served as models for her fairy illustrations.

Her art is characterised by fine, detailed linework and soft washes of colour, creating an otherworldly but tender atmosphere. Critics have often noted her ability to balance whimsy with a sense of quiet realism; her fairies seem to belong to the bush as naturally as any native bird. This helped root fantasy art in an Australian sensibility and made her a pioneer of what might be called Australian fairy imagery.

By the late 1930s, her style fell somewhat out of fashion as modernism took hold, and she produced fewer works after World War II. However, her illustrations remain iconic in Australian visual culture. Today, original Outhwaite books and prints are treasured collectors’ items, and her influence can still be seen in Australian fantasy illustration.

Wuthering Heights (1845)

A perfect quote from Emily Brontë's Wuthering Heights that vividly describes the Yorkshire moors is:

"Gimmerton chapel bells were still ringing; and the full, mellow flow of the beck in the valley came soothingly on the ear. It was a sweet substitute for the yet absent murmur of the summer foliage, which drowned that music about the Grange when the trees were in leaf. At Wuthering Heights it always sounded on quiet days following a great thaw or a season of steady rain. We could hear at all times the distant, soft echo which but for the hilly terrain, and the folds of the valley, would have reached us in a stormy rush. One may guess the power of the north wind blowing over Edge, by the excessive slant of a few stunted firs at the end of the house; and by a range of gaunt thorns all stretching their limbs one way, as if craving alms of the sun."

This passage beautifully captures the wild, windswept nature of the moors, where the land is shaped by the relentless forces of weather and time. Walking the Wuthering Heights Walk in West Yorkshire, one can see the same gnarled trees, bent by the wind, and hear the distant rush of streams in the valleys.

At Top Withins, the ruined farmhouse often linked to Brontë’s novel, the full force of the north wind can still be felt, much like in the passage. Further along, Bronte Bridge and waterfall offer a gentler contrast, their soothing sounds reminiscent of the beck’s "mellow flow" in the valley. To walk this landscape is to step into Brontë’s world, where the moors are not just a backdrop but a living, breathing presence, shaping the characters and their fates.

Below I include details of a lollipop circular walk I had planned to visit Top Withens and Bronte Bridge & Waterfalls, from the quietude of Gorples Reservoir Car Park and along the Pennine Way, but alas it was not to be and like Heathcliff, I remain a broken, tormented soul forever unfulfilled and longing for my emancipation in this bleak landscape.  

Photo Credits

Top Withens: https://www.visitbradford.com/things-to-do/top-withens-p1622601

Bronte Waterfall: https://live.staticflickr.com/3952/33665427922_248aa81e9c_b.jpg

Bronte Bridge: https://thirdeyetraveller.com/bronte-waterfall-walk/

The Fairy Faith in Celtic Countries (1911)

In the moorlands between Trossachs and Aberfoyle, a region made famous by Scott's Rob Roy, I have seen atmospheric changes so sudden and so contrasted as to appear marvellous. What shifting of vapours and clouds, what flashes of bright sun-gleams, then twilight at midday! Across the landscape, shadows of black dense fog-banks rush like shadows of flocks of great birds which darken all the earth. Palpitating fog-banks wrap themselves around the mountain-tops and then come down like living things to move across the valleys, sometimes only a few yards above the traveller's head. And in that country live terrible water-kelpies. When black clouds discharge their watery burden it is in wind-driven vertical water-sheets through which the world appears as through an ice-filmed window-pane. Perhaps in a single day there may be the bluest of heavens and the clearest air, the densest clouds and the darkest shadows, the calm of the morning and the wind of the tempest.

At night in Aberfoyle after such a day, I witnessed a clear sunset and a fair evening sky; in the morning when I arose, the lowlands along the river were inundated and a thousand cascades, large and small, were leaping down the mountain-highlands, and rain was falling in heavy masses. Within an hour afterwards, as I travelled on towards Stirling, the rain and wind ceased, and there settled down over all the land cloud-masses so inky-black that they seemed like the fancies of some horrible dream. Then like massed armies they began to move to their mountain-strongholds, and stood there; while from the east came perfect weather and a flood of brilliant sunshine.

And in the Highlands from Stirling to Inverness what magic, what changing colours and shadows there were on the age-worn treeless hills, and in the valleys with their clear, pure streams receiving tribute from unnumbered little rills and springs, some dropping water drop by drop as though it were fairy-distilled; and everywhere the heather giving to the mountain-landscape a hue of rich purplish-brown, and to the air an odour of aromatic fragrance.

On to the north-west beyond Inverness there is the same kind of a treeless highland country; and then after a few hours of travel one looks out across the water from Kyle and beholds Skye, where Cuchulainn is by some believed to have passed his young manhood learning feats of arms from fairy women—Skye, dark, mountainous, majestic, with its waterfalls turning to white spray as they tumble from cliff to cliff into the sound, from out the clouds that hide their mountain-summit sources.

In the Outer Hebrides, as in the Aranmore Islands off West Ireland, influences are at work on the Celtic imagination quite different from those in Skye and its neighbouring islands. Mountainous billows which have travelled from afar out of the mysterious watery waste find their first impediment on the west of these isolated Hebridean isles, and they fling themselves like mad things in full fury against the wild rocky islets fringing the coast. White spray flashes in unearthly forms over the highest cliff, and the unrestrained hurricane whirls it far inland. Ocean's eternally murmuring sounds set up a responsive vibration in the soul of the peasant, as he in solitude drives home his flocks amid the weird gloaming at the end of a December day; and, later, when he sits brooding in his humble cottage at night, in the fitful flickering of a peat fire, he has a mystic consciousness that deep down in his being there is a more divine music compared with which that of external nature is but a symbol and an echo; and, as he stirs the glowing peat-embers, phantoms from an irretrievable past seem to be sitting with him on the edge of the half-circle of dying light. Maybe there are skin-clad huntsmen of the sea and land, with spears and knives of bone and flint and shaggy sleeping dogs, or fearless sea-rovers resting wearily on shields of brilliant bronze, or maybe Celtic warriors fierce and bold; and then he understands that his past and his present are one.

Commonly there is the thickest day-darkness when the driving storms come in from the Atlantic, or when dense fog covers sea and land; and, again, there are melancholy sea-winds moaning across from shore to shore, bending the bushes of the purple heather. At other times there is a sparkle of the brightest sunshine on the ocean waves, a fierceness foreign to the more peaceful Highlands; and then again a dead silence prevails at sunrise and at sunset if one be on the mountains, or, if on the shore, no sound is heard save the rhythmical beat of the waves, and now and then the hoarse cry of a sea-bird. All these contrasted conditions may be seen in one day, or each may endure for a day; and the dark days last nearly all the winter. And then it is, during the long winter, that the crofters and fisher-folk congregate night after night in a different neighbour's house to tell about fairies and ghosts, and to repeat all those old legends so dear to the heart of the Celt. Perhaps every one present has heard the same story or legend a hundred times, yet it is always listened to and told as though it were the latest bulletin of some great world-stirring event.

Over those little islands, so far away to the north, out on the edge of the world, in winter-time darkness settles down at four o'clock or even earlier; and the islanders hurry through with their dinner of fish and oat-bread so as not to miss hearing the first story. When the company has gathered from far and near, pipes are re-filled and lit and the peat is heaped up, for the story-telling is not likely to end before midnight. The house is roomy and clean, if homely, with its bright peat fire in the middle of the floor. There are many present—men and women, boys and girls. All the women are seated, and most of the men. Girls are crouched between the knees of fathers or brothers or friends, while boys are perched wherever—boy-like—they can climb. The house-man is twisting twigs of heather into ropes to hold down thatch, a neighbour crofter is twining quicken root into cords to tie cows, while another is plaiting bent grass into baskets to hold meal. The housewife is spinning, a daughter is carding, another daughter is teazing, while a third daughter, supposed to be working, is away in the background conversing in low whispers with the son of a neighbouring crofter. Neighbour wives and neighbour daughters are knitting, sewing, or embroidering.

Then when the bad weather for fishing has been fully discussed by the men, and the latest gossip by the women, and the foolish talk of the youths and maidens in the corners is finished, the one who occupies the chair of honour in the midst of the ceilidh looks around to be sure that everybody is comfortable and ready; and, as his first story begins, even the babes by instinct cease their noise and crying, and young and old bend forward eagerly to hear every word.

From: Evans-Wentz, W.Y. (1911) The Fairy-Faith in Celtic Countries. Oxford: Clarendon Press.

Mosel Boat Tour: Cochem to Beilstein

A boat tour on the Mosel River in Cochem is a magical experience, offering a perfect way to soak in the beauty of one of Germany’s most picturesque regions. Cochem, a charming town nestled along the Mosel, is surrounded by lush vineyards, rolling hills, and medieval castles, creating a stunning backdrop as you glide down the river.

As the boat sets off, you’re immediately greeted with breathtaking views of Reichsburg Cochem, a fairy-tale-like castle perched high on a hill. Originally built around the year 1000, it was destroyed by French troops in 1689 and remained in ruins for centuries before being lovingly restored in the 19th century. Now, with its neo-Gothic architecture, richly furnished rooms, and sweeping views of the Mosel Valley, it stands as a striking landmark. Some boat tours even offer the chance to visit the castle, stepping back in time to experience its grandeur firsthand.

Drifting along the calm waters, the landscape unfolds with steep, terraced vineyards that produce some of the finest Riesling wines in the world. The Mosel Valley’s beauty changes with the seasons—lush green vines in summer, golden hues in autumn, and a crisp, misty charm in the cooler months. Many tours include stops at local wineries where visitors can sample the region’s celebrated wines. Meanwhile, onboard bars offer cool beers, refreshing ices, and even pizza, making the journey as relaxing as it is scenic.

A little way south of Cochem, the boat reaches Beilstein, often called the "Sleeping Beauty of the Mosel." This quaint village, with its cobbled streets and medieval charm, feels like a step back in time. Overlooking the town is Burg Metternich, a ruined castle that adds to the romantic atmosphere. Though partially in ruins, it offers spectacular views of the river valley and surrounding vineyards.

Whether you’re cruising in the warm afternoon glow or beneath the golden hues of a sunset, a boat tour on the Mosel is an unforgettable way to experience the region. The gentle rhythm of the water, the ever-changing landscape, and the historic charm of Cochem and Beilstein come together to create a truly memorable journey.

Margaret Fuller: Until My Wings Be Grown (1839)

"I love the stern Titanic part, I love the crag, even the Drachenfels of life - I love its roaring sea that dashes against the crag - I love its sounding cataract, its lava rush, its whirlwind, its rivers generating the lotus and the crocodile, its hot sands with their white bones, patient camels, and majestic columns toppling to the sky in all the might of dust. I love its dens and silvery gleaming caverns, its gnomes, its serpents, and the tigers sudden spring. Nay! I would not be without what I know better, its ghostly northern firs, haggard with ice, its solitary tarns, tearful eyes of the lone forest, its trembling lizards and its wounded snakes dragging to secretest recesses their slow length along.

Who can know these and, other myriad children of Chaos and old night, who can know the awe the horror and the majesty of earth, yet be content with the blue sky alone. Not I for one. I love the love lit dome above, I cannot live without mine own particular star; but my foot is on the earth and I wish to walk over it until my wings be grown. I will use my microscope as well as my telescope. And oh ye flowers, ye fruits, and, nearer kindred yet, stones with your veins so worn by fire and water, and here and there disclosing streaks of golden awe, let us know one another before we part. Tell me your secret, tell me mine. To be human is also something?"

From a letter to Caroline Sturgis, Jan 27th 1839. 
Highland, Chris (Ed) (2007). Meditations of Margaret Fuller: The Inner Stream. Self Published.

Photo Credit: FrankyFromGermany via Pixabay

An Bainise (2024)

A new Bohemian Budgie audio creation to get your chops around, to accompany the wedding. The autumnal colours of the design really go well with the folky vibe. It glows warmly like a candle flame. In fact, the colours were one of the stand out features of our great day, with no frosty intrusion from icy blues & greys, no garish high viz. Hopefully the album reflects that. A kind of homespun simplicity to anchor and dispel all the frenzy of the wedding preparations. 

An Bainise (Irish Gaelic for The Wedding) is a beautifully curated musical journey with a mix of traditional and contemporary influences, ideal for a thoughtful, reflective listening experience.

The cover art, with its autumnal floral wreath and evocative illustration of a playful rabbit herald (one of Arthur Rackham’s illustrations for Alice in Wonderland), sets a poetic and charming folkloric tone that matches the curated mood of the album. The inclusion of W.B. Yeats’ poem "Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven" suggests emotional depth and literary sensibility underpinning a sense of solemnity for the upcoming ceremony.

The tracklist indicates a diverse range of styles from folk classics like "Scarborough Fair" (Simon & Garfunkle), Celtic traditional ("Siúil A Rún" by Clannad), to more contemplative and intricate instrumentals ("Intermezzo in A" by Brahms, "Dr. MacInnes Fancy" by Iain MacInnes). There is a seamless blend of vocal and instrumental pieces, which creates a rich tapestry of sound that flows from acoustic folk to lyrical ballads, evoking faraway landscapes and stories.

Highlights include the haunting quality of "Is Trua Nach Bhfuil Mé in Éirinn" by The Bothy Band, the atmospheric storytelling of "You Rambling Boys of Pleasure" by Planxty, and the warmth of "Fisherman’s Blues" by The Waterboys. The presence of heartfelt modern folk-soft rock elements, e.g., Nick Drake’s "Time Has Told Me," adds to the album’s timeless feel.

Overall, An Bainise offers an invigorating yet intimate listening experience, perfect for a quiet evening or contemplative moments, reflecting a deep appreciation for Celtic and folk music traditions blended with poignant, literary overtones. The album likely balances fortifying and stimulating qualities, much like its namesake theme suggests.

Scenes from a Wedding

They say its the best day of your life, and it bloody well is. I never imagined my heart would belong to such a beauty of a kleine German lady, or that I would be whisked away from my rugged homeland to an ancient castle for a fairy tale wedding, with a purple-robed princess and me wearing an ancestral kilt. Namedy Castle, near Andernach, began as a 14th-century moated fortress but was transformed in the early 18th century into a Baroque pleasure palace by Johann Arnold von Solemacher. Known for its decadent social life and grand architecture, it later suffered war damage, but today serves as a venue for concerts and celebrations, continuing its legacy of luxury and festivity. 

Our wedding day went without a hitch, except for the act of getting hitched itself. Well, ok after a few drinks I fell down the stone stairs and face planted in the wall opposite, but luckily for me, nobody saw that indignity. As you can see from the order of events & photos (you only get the anonymised ones here, pauper), we had a marvellous time with poetry, music, grand surroundings, a bracing whisky Quaich ceremony, handfasting, champagne reception, Scottish pipers, and the most sumptuous meal at the Eifeler Seehütte in Rieden, on the banks of the Waldsee lake into which the beautiful autumn leaves cascaded in their orange and gold finery until the dusk consumed everything. Then, after it was all over, I went out to the lakeside with my bride and we sent Chinese lanterns serenely along the still misty waters, like hopeful wishes for a future of wellbeing and happiness. What an incredible day, and an incredible event. It shall live with me forever, and every time I look into the eyes of my ever-loving bride. 

Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven by W.B. Yeats

Had I the heaven's embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half-light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

From The Prophet, by Kahlil Gibran

Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself.

But if you love and must needs have desires,

Let these be your desires:

To melt and be like a running brook

That sings its melody to the night,

To know the pain of too much tenderness.

To be wounded by your own understanding of love;

And to bleed willingly and joyfully.

To wake at dawn with a winged heart

And give thanks for another day of loving;

To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;

To return home at eventide with gratitude;

And to sleep with a prayer

For the beloved in your heart

And a song of praise upon your lips.

For the Quaich Ceremony:

Ihr seid nun eins ihr beide by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Ihr seid nun eins, ihr beide,

und wir sind mit euch eins.

Trinkt auf der Freude Dauer

ein Glas des guten Weins!

Und bleibt zu allen Zeiten

einander zugekehrt

durch Streit und Zwietracht werde

nie euer Bund zerstört.

You Two Are One Now, by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

~ English Translation ~

You two are one now

and we are with you one.

Drink to happiness and permanence

a glass of good wine.

And remain at all times

turned towards each other

and fight and conflict may

never break your bond.

 

For the Handfasting Ceremony: 

This Marriage by Rumi 

May these vows and this marriage be blessed. 

May this marriage be as sweet as milk and honey, 

May this marriage be as intoxicating as old wine, 

May this marriage be fruitful like the date palm, 

May this marriage be full of laughter, and everyday a paradise. 

May this marriage be a seal of compassion, for here and hereafter. 

May this marriage have a fair face and a good name, 

May this marriage be as welcome as the full moon in the night sky. 

Listen lovers, now you go on, as I become silent and kiss this blessed night. 

Liebeslied, by Rainer Maria Rilke

Wie soll ich meine Seele halten, daß

sie nicht an deine rührt? Wie soll ich sie

hinheben über dich zu andern Dingen?

Ach gerne möcht ich sie bei irgendwas

Verlorenem im Dunkel unterbringen

an einer fremden stillen Stelle, die

nicht weiterschwingt, wenn deine Tiefen schwingen.

Doch alles, was uns anrührt, dich und mich,

nimmt uns zusammen wie ein Bogenstrich,

der aus zwei Saiten eine Stimme zieht.

Auf welches Instrument sind wir gespannt?

Und welcher Spieler hat uns in der Hand?

O süßes Lied!

Love Song, by Rainer Maria Rilke

~ English translation ~

How shall I hold my soul and yet not touch

It with your own? How shall I ever place

It clear of you on anything beyond?

Oh gladly I would stow it next to such

Things in the darkness as are never found

Down in an alien and silent space

That does not resonate when you resound.

But everything that touches me and you

Takes us together like a bow on two

Taut strings to stroke them to the voice of one.

What instrument have we been lain along?

Whose are the hands that play our unison?

Oh sweet song!

 

Order of Service 

Time & Venue: 2pm Tuesday 5th November 2024 Burg Namedy, Andernach 

Processional: Scarborough Fair, by Simon & Garfunkle. 

Alternative processional: Fantasia on Greensleeves, by Ralph Vaughan Williams.

Introduction from The Registrar 

Poem from The Prophet, by Kahlil Gibran. 

The Marriage Ceremony led by the Registrar 

Exchanging of the vows and rings,

Including the poem: Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven by W.B. Yeats. 

Handfasting to the poem: This Marriage by Rumi 

The signing of the Register 

The Quaich Ceremony to the poem: Ihr seid nun eins ihr beide by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe 

Recessional: Intermezzo in A major, Op. 118 No. 2 by Johannes Brahms 

The ceremony was followed by drinks in the castle. 

The reception dining event was held at Eifeler Seehütte in Rieden at 5pm.

John Burroughs: The Simple Life

I am bound to praise the simple life, because I have lived it and found it good... I love a small house, plain clothes, simple living. Many persons know the luxury of a skin bath- a plunge in the pool or the wave unhampered by clothing. That is the simple life - direct and immediate contact with things, life with the false wrappings torn away - the fine house, the fine equipage, the expensive habits, all cut off. How free one feels, how good the elements taste, how close one gets to them, how they fit one's body and one's soul! To see the fire that warms you, or better yet, to cut the wood that feeds the fire that warms you; to see the spring where the water bubbles up that slakes your thirst, and to dip your pail into it; to see the beams that are the stay of your four walls, and the timbers that uphold the roof that shelters you; to be in direct and personal contact with the sources of your material life; to want no extras, no shields; to find the universal elements enough; to find the air and the water exhilarating; to be refreshed by a morning walk or an evening saunter; to find a quest of wild berries more satisfying than a gift of tropic fruit; to be thrilled by the stars at night; to be elated over a bird's nest, or over a wild flower in spring - these are some of the rewards of the simple life. 

From: "An Outlook Upon Life" quoted in Our Friend John Burroughs (Clara Barrus, 1914). 

The current of the lives of many persons, I think, is like a muddy stream. They lack the instinct for health, and hence do not know when the vital current is foul. They are never really well ... The dew on the grass, the bloom on the grape, the sheen on the plumage, are suggestions of the health that is within the reach of most of us. 

I would live so that I could get tipsy on a glass of water, or find the spur in a whiff of morning air. 

You and I perish, but something goes out, or may go out, from us that will help forward a higher type of humanity. 

Oh, the wisdom that grows on trees, that murmurs in the streams, that floats in the wind, that sings in the birds, that is fragrant in the flowers, that speaks in the storms - the wisdom that one gathers on the shore, or when sauntering in the fields, or in resting under a tree, the wisdom that makes him forget his science, and exacts only his love - how precious it all is!

Naturalism does not see two immeasurable realities, God and Nature, it sees only one, that all is Nature or all is God, just as you prefer ... The universe was not made, it is, and always has been. God is Nature, and Nature is God. 

I shall not be imprisoned in the grave where you are to bury my body. I shall be diffused in great Nature, in the soil, in the air, in the sunshine, in the hearts of those who love me, in all the living and flowing currents of the world, though I may never again in my entirety be embodied in a single human being. My elements and my forces go back into the original sources out of which they came, and these sources are perennial in this vast, wonderful, divine cosmos. 

We are links in an endless cycle of change in which we cannot separate material from what we call the spiritual ... Each of us is an incarnation of the universal mind, as is every beast of the field and jungle, and every fowl of the air, and every insect that creeps and flies; and we can only look upon creation as an end in itself ... [Humanity] is a link in an endless chain of being (Accepting the Universe, 1920).

All quotes above from: Meditations of John Burroughs: Nature is Home. Chris Highland (Ed), Self-published, 2007.