Being outdoors is a big part of farming. Unless you are doing hydroponics, have a very large greenhouse, or using grow lights you need to be outside to grow plants. I find it fascinating that more people don’t embrace nature in the way farmers do on a daily basis.
Thoreau is one of the best examples of a writer who espouses the environment and celebrates life in the natural world. Here’s a short excerpt from one of his writings. This particular book chronicles his adventures exploring the Concord and Merrimack rivers.
On the Concord & Merrimack
by Henry David Thoreau
- From Wikipedia
My books I’d fain cast off, I cannot read,
‘Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at large
Down in the meadow, where is the richer feed,
And will not mind to hit their proper target.
Plutarch was good, and so was Homer too,
Our Shakespeare’s life was rich to live again;
What Plutarch read, that was not good nor true,
Nor Shakespeare’s books, unless his books were men.
Here while I lie beneath this walnut bough,
What care I for the Greeks or for Troy town,
if juster battles are enacted now
Between the ants upon this hummock’s crown?
Bid Homer wait till I the issue learn,
If red or black the gods will favor most,
Or yonder Ajax will the phalanx turn,
Struggling to heave some rock against the host.
Tell Shakespeare to attend some leisure hour,
For now I’ve business with this drop of dew,
And see you not, the clouds prepare a shower, —
I’ll meet him shortly when the sky is blue.
This bed of herd’s-grass and wild oats was spread
Last year with nicer skill than monarchs use,
A clover tuft is pillow for my head,
And violets quite overtop my shoes.
And now the cordial clouds have shut all in,
And gently swells the wind to say all’s well,
The scattered drops are falling fast and thin,
Some in the pool, some in the flower-bell.
I am well drenched upon my bed of oats;
But see that glove come rolling down its stem,
Now like a lonely planet there it floats,
And now it sinks into my garment’s hem.
Drip, drip the trees for all the country round,
And richness rare distills from every bough,
The wind alone it is makes every sound,
Shaking down crystals on the leaves below.
For shame the sun will never show itself,
Who could not with his beams e’er melt me so,
My dripping locks — they would become an elf,
Who in a beaded coat does gaily go.