THE HARP AT NATURE'S ADVENT STRUNG, HAS NEVER CEASED TO PLAY; THE SONG THE STARS OF MORNING SUNG, HAS NEVER DIED AWAY.
Jag får ont i magen när jag ser sådana här bilder, verkligen en vridning djupt nere i magsäcken. Jag har alltid drömt om att få se Alaska(amongst many other places on our planet ofc). Alaska har på något vis alltid stått mitt hjärta nära. Det är liksom en kärlek till en plats som både skrämmer och bedazels me! Kombinationen av snö, vackra berg, rikt djurliv, tystnad, renlighet, historia och drömmar ger mig kalla kårar då jag ser på bilder från Alaska. Magnifikt och vackert. Stort och krävande. Djupt och ålderdomligt. Det är inte omöjligt att ta sig dit såklart, men det blir isåfall ett jäkla stort projekt. Men så värt det. Precis som Kazakhstans natur, dess stäpp specifikt, vill jag rida på hästar långt ute på Alaskas vägar som ingen annan rest igenom. Det ska vara orörd mark, områden som ingen vågar ta sig till och stillsamma vägar. Nu kanske jag drömmer för mycket, men såväl det är drömmarna som tar oss någonstans i livet iaf. Jag vill ju rida på stäppen i Kazakhstan så varför inte i drömlandet Alaska? Ingenting är omöjligt. Om jag inte får möjligheten att besöka Alaska så får jag helt enkelt nöja mig med Kazakhstan eller den östra delen av mitt hemland Ryssland. Åh vår vackra planet!
The harp at Nature's advent strung
Has never ceased to play;
The song the stars of morning sung
Has never died away.
And prayer is made, and praise is given,
By all things near and far;
The ocean looketh up to heaven,
And mirrors every star.
Its waves are kneeling on the strand,
As kneels the human knee,
Their white locks bowing to the sand,
The priesthood of the sea!
They pour their glittering treasures forth,
Their gifts of pearl they bring,
And all the listening hills of earth
Take up the song they sing.
The green earth sends its incense up
From many a mountain shrine;
From folded leaf and dewy cup
She pours her sacred wine.
The mists above the morning rills
Rise white as wings of prayer;
The altar-curtains of the hills
Are sunset's purple air.
The winds with hymns of praise are loud,
Or low with sobs of pain, --
The thunder-organ of the cloud,
The dropping tears of rain.
With drooping head and branches crossed
The twilight forest grieves,
Or speaks with tongues of Pentecost
From all its sunlit leaves.
The blue sky is the temple's arch,
Its transept earth and air,
The music of its starry march
The chorus of a prayer.
So Nature keeps the reverent frame
With which her years began,
And all her signs and voices shame
The prayerless heart of man.
Has never ceased to play;
The song the stars of morning sung
Has never died away.
And prayer is made, and praise is given,
By all things near and far;
The ocean looketh up to heaven,
And mirrors every star.
Its waves are kneeling on the strand,
As kneels the human knee,
Their white locks bowing to the sand,
The priesthood of the sea!
They pour their glittering treasures forth,
Their gifts of pearl they bring,
And all the listening hills of earth
Take up the song they sing.
The green earth sends its incense up
From many a mountain shrine;
From folded leaf and dewy cup
She pours her sacred wine.
The mists above the morning rills
Rise white as wings of prayer;
The altar-curtains of the hills
Are sunset's purple air.
The winds with hymns of praise are loud,
Or low with sobs of pain, --
The thunder-organ of the cloud,
The dropping tears of rain.
With drooping head and branches crossed
The twilight forest grieves,
Or speaks with tongues of Pentecost
From all its sunlit leaves.
The blue sky is the temple's arch,
Its transept earth and air,
The music of its starry march
The chorus of a prayer.
So Nature keeps the reverent frame
With which her years began,
And all her signs and voices shame
The prayerless heart of man.
- John Greenleaf Whittier
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