From a book about Irish monasticism, some Celtic nature poetry:
I have a bothy in the wood--
none knows it save the Lord, my God;
one wall an ash, the other hazel,
and a great fern makes the door.
The doorposts are made of heather,
the lintel of honeysuckle;
and wild forest all around
yields mast for well-fed swine.
This size my hut: the smallest thing,
homestead amid well-trod paths;
a woman (but blackbird clothed and seeming)
warbles sweetly from its gable.
This little sweet humble place
holds tenure of the teeming woods;
maybe you will come to see?--
but alone I like quite happy.
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