The sky is pure and cool, lying wide open to all the stars. There is a great flock of worlds up in that endless meadow, tiny, teeming worlds, so tiny that they are like the sound of a tinkling bell; as I look at them, I can hear thousands of tiny bells.
(Knut Hamsun, tr. Paula Wiking, Look Back on Happiness)
O up in height, O snatcht up, O swiftly going,
Common to beechwood, breathing was loving, the yet
Unknown Crickley Cliffs trumpeted, set music on glowing
In my mind. White Cotswold, wine scarlet woods and leaf wreckage wet.
(Ivor Gurney, Old Thought, from the Collected Poems)
The world is not to be cheated of a grain; not so much as a breath of its air is to be drawn surreptitiously.
(John Ruskin, The Crown of Wild Olive)