Oh that a Song would sing itself to me
Out of the heart of Nature, or the heart
Of man, the child of Nature, not of Art,
Fresh as the morning, salt as the salt sea,
With just enough of bitterness to be
A medicine to this sluggish mood, and start
The life-blood in my veins, and so impart
Healing and help in this dull lethargy!
Alas! not always doth the breath of song
Breathe on us. It is like the wind that bloweth
At its own will, not ours, nor tarrieth long;
We hear the sound thereof, but no man knoweth
From whence it comes, so sudden and swift and strong,
Nor whither in its wayward course it goeth.
Reflecting on our epic journey to Europe in 2013-14. It all began at Canberra Airport. The same taxi driver getting there as we had on the return journey seven weeks later. Who'd have thought?! The flight to Dubai, the connection to London. The missed flight to Copenhagen. The wait in the British Airways lounge. The train trip from CPN airport to mid town. The helpful souls at the bus stop who shepherded us to our apartment. A local nurse and her husband and grandchildren who lived near our apartment. We dragged our suitcases over cobblestone and across roads and footpaths and up four flights of stairs. So. Here we are on our first night on the ground. In chilly Denmark. So many moods in a long journey across the world.
Poem: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Photo: By me