Misty Mountain Quotes

Far over the misty mountains cold To dungeons deep and caverns old We must away ere break of day To seek the pale enchanted gold. The dwarves of yore made mighty spells, While hammers fell like ringing bells In places deep, where dark things sleep, In hollow halls beneath the fells. For ancient king and elvish lord There many a gleaming golden hoard They shaped and wrought, and light they caught To hide in gems on hilt of sword. On silver necklaces they strung The flowering stars, on crowns they hung The dragon-fire, in twisted wire They meshed the light of moon and sun. Far over the misty mountains cold To dungeons deep and caverns old We must away, ere break of day, To claim our long-forgotten gold. Goblets they carved there for themselves And harps of gold; where no man delves There lay they long, and many a song Was sung unheard by men or elves. The pines were roaring on the height, The wind was moaning in the night. The fire was red, it flaming spread; The trees like torches blazed with light. The bells were ringing in the dale And men looked up with faces pale; The dragon's ire more fierce than fire Laid low their towers and houses frail. The mountain smoked beneath the moon; The dwarves, they heard the tramp of doom. They fled their hall to dying fall Beneath his feet, beneath the moon. Far over the misty mountains grim To dungeons deep and caverns dim We must away, ere break of day, To win our harps and gold from him!

Far over the misty mountains cold. To dungeons deep, and caverns old

Far over misty mountains cold To dungeons deep and caverns old We must away, ere break of day, To find our long-forgotten gold.

Far over the Misty Mountains cold, To dungeons deep and caverns old, We must away, ere break of day, To seek our pale enchanted gold. The dwarves of yore made mighty spells, While hammers fell like ringing bells, In places deep, where dark things sleep, In hollow halls beneath the fells. The pines were roaring on the heights, The wind was moaning in the night, The fire was red, it flaming spread, The trees like torches blazed with light.

The way to Elfin is found on the path That weaves through the Misty Forest That lives between the Mountain of Vision And the River of Reality

Fare well we call to hearth and hall Though wind may blow and rain may fall We must away ere break of day Over the wood and mountain tall To Rivendell where Elves yet dwell In glades beneath the misty fell Through moor and waste we ride in haste And wither then we cannot tell With foes ahead behind us dread Beneath the sky shall be our bed Until at last our toil be sped Our journey done, our errand sped We must away! We must away! We ride before the break of day!

So the days slipped away, as each morning dawned bright and fair, and each evening followed cool and clear. But autumn was waning fast; slowly the golden light faded to pale silver, and the lingering leaves fell from the naked trees. A wind began to blow chill from the Misty Mountains to the east. The Hunter's Moon waxed round in the night sky, and put to flight all the lesser stars. But low in the South one star shone red. Every night, as the Moon waned again, it shone brighter and brighter. Frodo could see it from his window, deep in the heavens, burning like a watchful eye that glared above the trees on the brink of the valley.

Therefore, let the moon shine on thee in thy solitary walk; And let the misty-mountain winds be free to blow against thee.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, but I chose neither one. Instead, I set sail in my little boat to watch a sunset from a different view that couldn't be seen from shore. Then I climbed the tallest mountain peak to watch the amber sun through the clouds. Finally, I traveled to the darkest part of the valley to see the last glimmering rays of light through the misty fog. It was every perspective I experienced on my journey that left the leaves trodden black, and that has made all the difference.

And jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops...

Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day: It was the nightingale, and not the lark, That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear; Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree: Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. Rom. It was the lark, the herald of the morn, No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east: Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops: I must be gone and live, or stay and die. Jul. Yon light is not daylight, I know it, I: It is some meteor that the sun exhales, To be to thee this night a torch-bearer, And light thee on thy way to Mantua: Therefore stay yet; thou need'st not to be gone, Rom. Let me be ta'en,, let me be put to death; I am content, so thou wilt have it so. I'll say yon grey is not the morning's eye, 'T is but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow; Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat The vaulty heaven so high above our heads: I have more care to stay than will to go: Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so, How is't my soul? let's talk; it is not day. Jul. It is, it is; hie hence, be gone, away! It is the lark that sings so out of tune, Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps. Some say the lark makes sweet division; This doth not so, for she divideth us: Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes; O! now I would they had changed voices too, Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray, Hunting thee hence with hunt's up to the day. O! now be gone; more light and light it grows. Rom. More light and light; more dark and dark our woes.

For even in the misty light, the goldfish man could see her smiling a secret smile up to the sky to where the mountain meets the moon.

I returned to the courtyard and saw that the sun had grown weaker. Beautiful and clear as it had been, the morning (as the day approached the completion of its first half) was becoming damp and misty. Heavy clouds moved from the north and were invading the top of the mountain, covering it with a light brume. It seemed to be fog, and perhaps fog was also rising from the ground, but at that altitude it was difficult to distinguish the mists that rose from below and those that come down from above. It was becoming hard to discern the bulk of the more distant buildings.

Song of myself Smile O voluptuous cool-breath'd earth! Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees! Earth of departed sunset--earth of the mountains misty-topt! Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue! Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river! Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake! Far-swooping elbow'd earth--rich apple-blossom'd earth! Smile, for your lover comes.

She had a bottle of water in her pack—a big one with a squeeze-top—but suddenly all Trisha wanted in the world was to prime the pump in the little hut and get a drink, cold and fresh, from its rusty lip. She would drink and pretend she was Bilbo Baggins, on his way to the Misty Mountains.

He felt so lost, he said later, that the familiar studio felt like a haunted valley deep in the mountains, with the smell of rotting leaves, the spray of a waterfall, the sour fumes of fruit stashed away by a monkey; even the dim glow of the master's oil lamp on its tripod looked to him like misty moonlight in the hills.

I remember something that my granny told me once about these misty mountains of ours they call the Smokies. Granny said God hung that haze on purpose, to hide these hills from the folks up in Heaven who was raised here, so they wouldn't look down and be homesick.

The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold Is full of blessings, Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; And let the misty mountain-winds be free To blow against thee

My land When I die, may I turn into grass On my mountains in spring, In autumn I will turn to seed. When I die, may I turn into water, My misty breath Will fall onto the meadows as rain. When I die, may I turn into stone, On the confines of my land May I be a landmark. Translated by Robert Elsie

Leonardo had also been wrestling with the question of why the sky appears blue, and around that time he had correctly concluded that it had to do with the water vapor in the air. In the Saint Anne painting, he portrays the sky’s luminous and misty gradations of blue as no other painter had done. The recent cleaning of the painting fully reveals the magical realism, veiled in vapors, of his distant mountains and skyline.

Yet the misty spring rain softened the outline of the mountain across the river and made it even more beautiful. So gentle was the rain that they hardly knew they were getting wet as they strolled back toward the car, not even bothering to put up their umbrella. The slender threads of rain vanished into the river without a ripple. Cherry blossoms were intermingled with young green leaves, the colours of the budding trees all delicately subdued in the rain.

So you’re Rory,” Sid said, “and...well, he’s handsome but not chatty. Very stone-faced. Like the white cliffs of Dover.” “Those are chalk,” Sadie replied. “He’s more solid than that. Like the Misty Mountains.” “Over the hills where the spirits fly...” “With Rivendell in the foothills.” “And Orcs in every pass,” Sid concluded. “So perhaps he’s...” “Stephen,” Stephen said, bringing an end to that.

Soon, she is dreaming:  I am reading a letter addressed to me by an unknown hand:  Dear Kate.  The moon rises over the tips of the mountain peaks as we sit here in the darkness thinking of you – and remembering.  Remembering the smells of flowers long ago dried and withered away, their faint fragrances hanging in the misty air.  Remembering whispers of times gone by.  As we have done in the past, we dig deep, looking for clues to your whereabouts.  Eyes peek out at us from within the stillness of the night – eyes filled with longing and desire – curious orbs floating like lanterns in the misty void.  Looking up from the letter still within her dream, Kate finds herself face to face with two golden beacons of love-filled radiance.

Ignoring Misty Mountains wasn’t easy, either. Her brand new double D’s were mesmerizing, and the nipples kind of followed you wherever you went like the eyes on the creepy Jesus picture in her mom’s living room.

[on John Cowper Powys]...there is an indistinct photograph of the great man himself, gazing into the misty cleft of a mountain range, wearing what could be an old rug, or an old cardigan. He looks like a cross between an aged werewolf and a puzzled child.

RETURNING LATE ON THE ROAD FROM PINGQUAN ON WINTER’S DAY The mountain road is hard to travel, the sun now slanting down, In a misty village, a crow lands on a frosted tree. I'll not arrive before night falls, but that should not concern me, Once I've drunk three warm cups, I'll feel as if at home.

The flight of a bird. That last light of the day. Those monstrous clouds in sky. A misty mountain with roaring river flowing at its foot. The rays of the sun transcending the deepest of oceans. The thunder of a tornado.The power of a tremor. The fire of a volcano. Nature is so fascinating & appalling at the same time.

doctor the animals the way

Thursday afternoon, the dark clouds closed in, and by Friday morning a heavy rain was falling. The mountain peaks were hazy sentinels, disappearing into misty fog that clung to the valley.

Colored like a sunset tide is a gaze sharply slicing through the reflective glass. A furrowed brow is set much too seriously, as if trying to unfold the pieces of the face that stared back at it. One eyebrow is raised skeptically, always calculating and analyzing its surroundings. I tilt my head trying to see the deeper meaning in my features, trying to imagine the connection between my looks and my character as I stare in the mirror for the required five minutes. From the dark brown hair fastened tightly in a bun, a curl as bright as woven gold comes loose. A flash of unruly hair prominent through the typical browns is like my temper; always there, but not always visible. I begin to grow frustrated with the girl in the mirror, and she cocks her hip as if mocking me. In a moment, her lips curve in a half smile, not quite detectable in sight but rather in feeling, like the sensation of something good just around the corner. A chin was set high in a stubborn fashion, symbolizing either persistence or complete adamancy. Shoulders are held stiff like ancient mountains, proud but slightly arrogant. The image watches with the misty eyes of a daydreamer, glazed over with a sort of trance as if in the middle of a reverie, or a vision. Every once and a while, her true fears surface in those eyes, terror that her life would amount to nothing, that her work would have no impact. Words written are meant to be read, and sometimes I worry that my thoughts and ideas will be lost with time. My dream is to be an author, to be immortalized in print and live forever in the minds of avid readers. I want to access the power in being able to shape the minds of the young and open, and alter the minds of the old and resolute. Imagine the power in living forever, and passing on your ideas through generations. With each new reader, a new layer of meaning is uncovered in writing, meaning that even the author may not have seen. In the mirror, I see a girl that wants to change the world, and change the way people think and reason. Reflection and image mean nothing, for the girl in the mirror is more than a one dimensional picture. She is someone who has followed my footsteps with every lesson learned, and every mistake made. She has been there to help me find a foothold in the world, and to catch me when I fall. As the lights blink out, obscuring her face, I realize that although that image is one that will puzzle me in years to come, she and I aren’t so different after all.

Then, just for a blessed few hours, he had climbed out of that chopper into the high, cold, piney air of Bhutan, and gone for a ramble in the king’s Land Rover, and hiked up a misty mountain that had struck him as being straight from a 1970s album cover. And he had done some introspection about the fact that he couldn’t even take such a lovely place at face value but only liken it to such pop culture references.

I tumbled wildly through the air. The ground was so far away I could see the entire island: the misty stone mountains and verdant jungle surrounded by white sand and teal ocean. I was higher than a flock of birds, higher than a human had any right being. And it would have been extraordinary and beautiful had I, you might recall, not been falling to my very imminent and no doubt painful death. I did scream now, quite loudly.

From the mountain peaks for streams descend and flow near the town; in the cascades the white water is calling, but the mistis do not hear it. On the hillsides, on the plains, on the mountaintops the yellow flowers dance in the wind, but the mistis hardly see them. At dawn, against the cold sky, beyond the edge of the mountains, the sun appears; then the larks and doves sing, fluttering their little wings; the sheep and the colts run to and fro in the grass, while the mistis sleep or watch, calculating the weight of their steers. In the evening Tayta Inti gilds the sk, gilds the earth, but they sneeze, spur their horses on the road, or drink coffee, drink hot pisco. But in the hearts of the Puquios, the valley is weeping and laughing, in their eyes the sky and the sun are alive; within them the valley sings with the voice of the morning, of the noontide, of the afternoon, of the evening.

He watched her small figure disappear and brought the bag back to his shoulder to continue onward. But before he took another step, he looked at the tall mountain that touched the moon, its peak soaring into the sky as if holding it up. Misty clouds draped softly, but up where the mountain met the moon, Rendi thought he could still see what he expected to be there. There was old Mr. Shan, the Spirit of the Mountain, who sat at the mountain’s tip with the book in his lap.

It will be seen that the form of the mountain’s spurs were very much [the] same as they appear on Thror’s map as published (with the height of Ravenhill at the end of the southern spur and the camp beneath it); but the ruins of Dale are on the east side of the River Running, since they were not enclosed within a great eastward loop of the river. The device at the top of the map apparently represents the points of the compass, with the seven stars of the Great Bear in the North (the black spots to the left of the stars are merely marks on the paper), the Sun in the South, the Misty Mountains in the West and (I think) the entrance to the Elvenking’s halls in the East. The names at the bottom of the page, ‘Mirkwood’, ‘marshes’, and ‘Lake Town’, and the ‘camp’below the mountain, were added in at the same time as the second version of the text of the Moon-runes. At the bottom on the right is the first actual sketch of the Lonely Mountain, added in pencil.

But eventually Galadriel became aware that Sauron again, as in the ancient days of the captivity of Melkor [see The Silmarillion p. 51], had been left behind. Or rather, since Sauron had as yet no single name, and his operations had not been perceived to proceed from a single evil spirit, prime servant of Melkor, she perceived that there was an evil controlling purpose abroad in the world, and that it seemed to proceed from a source further to the East, beyond Eriador and the Misty Mountains.

Some friends and I once walked the ancient pilgrimage route of the Ōmine Yamabushi (mountain ascetics) in Nara prefecture from Yoshino to Kumano. In doing so we crossed the traditional center of the “Diamond-Realm Mandala” at the summit of Mt. Ōmine (close to six thousand feet) and four hiking days later descended to the center of the “Womb-Realm Mandala” at the Kumano (“Bear Field”) Shrine, deep in a valley. It was the late-June rainy season, flowery and misty. There were little stone shrines the whole distance — miles of ridges — to which we sincerely bowed each time we came on them.

Tomino’s Hell Elder sister vomits blood, younger sister’s breathing fire while sweet little Tomino just spits up the jewels. All alone does Tomino go falling into that hell, a hell of utter darkness, without even flowers. Is Tomino’s big sister the one who whips him? The purpose of the scourging hangs dark in his mind. Lashing and thrashing him, ah! But never quite shattering. One sure path to Avici, the eternal hell. Into that blackest of hells guide him now, I pray— to the golden sheep, to the nightingale. How much did he put in that leather pouch to prepare for his trek to the eternal hell? Spring is coming to the valley, to the wood, to the spiraling chasms of the blackest hell. The nightingale in her cage, the sheep aboard the wagon, and tears well up in the eyes of sweet little Tomino. Sing, o nightingale, in the vast, misty forest— he screams he only misses his little sister. His wailing desperation echoes throughout hell— a fox peony opens its golden petals. Down past the seven mountains and seven rivers of hell— the solitary journey of sweet little Tomino. If in this hell they be found, may they then come to me, please, those sharp spikes of punishment from Needle Mountain. Not just on some empty whim Is flesh pierced with blood-red pins: they serve as hellish signposts for sweet little Tomino. —translated by David Bowles June 29, 2014

I hardly ever fall down, and I love running! Running is so great, so free. I can climb trees, and I always know what’s around me, even things that don’t make any noise. And I can hear the sun’s song every day, and the mountains all around us, and did you know there’s a night-sun? It’s true. I hear it sing almost every night. It’s mysterious and . . . misty and beautiful. It isn’t hot like the sun; it’s cold so you don’t feel it. And I can hear a million other things in the sky at night. The universe is a great big band making the best songs every night and I can hear them!” He paused and lowered his voice. No one stirred or made the least sound. Andrius raised his finger to his eye. “Because I can hear out of my eyes. And I want to teach you how too.

There has been a revolution in our understanding over the last forty years, and the gains in knowledge are permanent. But we will never know everything, and that is as it should be. From the obscuring mist of the past, science has ensured that some of the mountains have emerged into clear view, but as soon as that happens the misty shadows of further peaks are glimpsed in the distance, rank upon rank: so many other heights to climb, so many mysteries to investigate.

Before this grief, mountains must bend down And rivers stop, But prison locks are strong, And behind them are the labor-camp bunks And the deadly tedium. For others the fresh breeze is blowing, For others the extravagant sun sets — For us everything is the same, we know nothing, We hear only the keys and their hateful grinding. Only the soldiers' stiff steps. We get up as for early Mass in the city, The savaged city, and coming We meet ourselves, the dead, the unbreathing. The sun is low, the Neva misty, It is only in the distance that hope is singing. The sentence . . . and at once tears, Now everything has been taken, The rest of life, torn from her heart, Knocked backwards by a hoodlum And yet she walks . . . stumbles . . . alone . . . Where are they now, unwilling friends Of years in Hell? What visions do they see in Siberian snow-storms? What hallucinations in the circle of the moon? I send them this goodbye and wish them well.

This place, our little cloud forest, even though we missed our papi, it was the most beautiful place you've ever seen. We didn't really know that then, because it was the only place we'd ever seen, except in picture in books and magazines, but now that's I've seen other place, I know. I know how beautiful it was. And we loved it anyway even before we knew. Because the trees had these enormous dark green leaves, as a big as a bed, and they would sway in the wind. And when it rain you could hear the big, fat raindrops splatting onto those giant leaves, and you could only see the sky in bright blue patches if you were walking a long way off to a friend's house or to church or something, when you passed through a clearing and all those leaves would back away and open up and the hot sunshine would beat down all yellow and gold and sticky. And there were waterfalls everywhere with big rock pools where you could take a bath and the water was always warm and it smelled like sunlight. And at night there was the sound of the tree frogs and the music of the rushing water from the falls and all the songs of the night birds, and Mami would make the most delicious chilate, and Abuela would sing to us in the old language, and Soledad and I would gather herbs and dry them and bundle them for Papi to sell in the market when he had a day off, and that's how we passed our days.' Luca can see it. He's there, far away in the misty cloud forest, in a hut with a packed dirt floor and a cool breeze, with Rebeca and Soledad and their mami and abuela, and he can even see their father, far away down the mountain and through the streets of that clogged, enormous city, wearing a long apron and a chef's hat, and his pockets full of dried herbs. Luca can smell the wood of the fire, the cocoa and cinnamon of the chilate, and that's how he knows Rebeca is magical, because she can transport him a thousand miles away into her own mountain homestead just by the sound of her voice.

He was looking deep inside her now, as if searching for an answer. She felt her whole being splayed for him to see—her fears, her hopes. He took another step, closing the distance between them. Her chin rose, her eyes locked in his. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. He was so close. His hand touched her cheek. She leaned into his warmth, absently wondering where his glove had gone. And then his head came down, and his lips brushed hers. Warm, gentle, and exquisite. Her eyes fluttered shut as she breathed him in.

We feel the life and motion about us, and the universal beauty: the tides marching back and forth with weariless industry, laving the beautiful shores, and swaying the purple dulse of the broad meadows of the sea where the fishes are fed, the wild streams in rows white with waterfalls, ever in bloom and ever in song, spreading their branches over a thousand mountains; the vast forests feeding on the drenching sunbeams, every cell in a whirl of enjoyment; misty flocks of insects stirring all the air, the wild sheep and goats on the grassy ridges above the woods, bears in the berry-tangles, mink and beaver and otter far back on many a river and lake; Indians and adventurers pursuing their lonely ways; birds tending to their young—everywhere, everywhere, beauty and life, and glad, rejoicing action. In this moment, he was experiencing what the Stoics would call sympatheia—a connectedness with the cosmos. The French philosopher Pierre Hadot has referred to it as the “oceanic feeling.” A sense of belonging to something larger, of realizing that “human things are an infinitesimal point in the immensity.

Far over the misty mountains cold To dungeons deep and caverns old We must away ere break of day To seek the pale enchanted gold. The dwarves of yore made mighty spells, While hammers fell like ringing bells In places deep, where dark things sleep, In hollow halls beneath the fells. For ancient king and elvish lord There many a gleaming golden hoard They shaped and wrought, and light they caught To hide in gems on hilt of sword. On silver necklaces they strung The flowering stars, on crowns they hung The dragon-fire, in twisted wire They meshed the light of moon and sun. Far over the misty mountains cold To dungeons deep and caverns old We must away, ere break of day, To claim our long-forgotten gold. Goblets they carved there for themselves And harps of gold; where no man delves There lay they long, and many a song Was sung unheard by men or elves. The pines were roaring on the height, The winds were moaning in the night. The fire was red, it flaming spread; The trees like torches blazed with light. The bells were ringing in the dale And men looked up with faces pale; The dragon’s ire more fierce than fire Laid low their towers and houses frail. The mountain smoked beneath the moon; The dwarves, they heard the tramp of doom. They fled their hall to dying fall Beneath his feet, beneath the moon. Far over the misty mountains grim To dungeons deep and caverns dim We must away, ere break of day, To win our harps and gold from him! As

The two fragments from Marks and Spencer which, as Fenchurch rose now into the misty body of the clouds, Arthur removed very, very slowly, which is the only way it's possible to do it when you're flying and also not using your hands, went on to create considerable havoc in the morning in, respectively, counting from top to bottom, Isleworth and Richmond. They were in the cloud for a long time, because it was stacked very high, and when finally they emerged wetly above it, Fenchurch spinning like a starfish lapped by a rising tide pool, they found that above the clouds is where the night gets seriously moonlit. The light is darkly brilliant. There are different mountains up there, but they are mountains with their own white Arctic snows. They had emerged at the top of the high-stacked cumulonimbus, and now began lazily to drift down its contours, as Fenchurch eased Arthur in turn from his clothes, pried him free of them till all were gone, winding their surprised way down into the enveloping whiteness. She kissed him, kissed his neck, his chest, and soon they were drifting on, turning slowly, in a kind of speechless T-shape, which might have caused even a Fuolornis Fire Dragon, had one flown past, replete with pizza, to flap its wings and cough a little.

I still cherish my childhood memories of the sun opening the dusky eyelids of the west and the misty mornings against the backdrop of of Kgalatlou Mountain. The green prime of summer, twingling leaves of acacia yrees of Manthakge Plains, pure clear sky, the smooth plough fields and lush green meadows. In winter, that green carpet will be replaced by drearily looking land like a dim picture of the drowned past, all signs of life and feeling gone out of it, with the plough fields scorched and naked, the streams of Manyane silent, and the grass of the meadows looking like burned powder.  I still remember and cherish the touch of autumn nights and the ruddy moon leaning over Madibong. When I think about this, a sorrowful silent tear always roll down my cheek, I become sad and gripped by grief because of what has now become of the land of my forefathers. I have known and cherished its distinguished  rocks, fauna, and flora since I could stand and walk. I know its mountain slopes, plains, its rocks, and bushes like the veins and knuckles at the back of my hand. The ever changing beauty of Leolo Mountains, from the aloes of Segodi Boulders to the lilies of Legaletlweng; the imposing Letheleding Boulders towering over Manyane Dale. The interesting contrast of granite ingenious sedimentary rocks of Leolo Mountains and the red sand rock of Seolwane Mountain, the red sandy soil of Leruleng, the dark clay soil of Marakane and the red fertile loom soil of Sehalbeng Plains. The Magnetite rocks Ga - Sethadi and the shale rocks of Malatjane.

A small figure in crimson stood before the bench, sleeves rolled to the elbow, muttering. Dumai cleared her throat. “Master Kiprun?” The alchemist whipped around. He wore round amber panes over his eyes, clipped to his nose, huge and misty with steam. “I did ask for duck feathers,” he said, in a tone of sincere annoyance. Dumai could only blink. His cheeks were flushed, threads of hair were stuck to his forehead, and he brandished a grey feather. “You brought me goose feathers. Goose,” he barked, making her jump. “You do know the difference between a duck and a goose, don’t you? One quacks and the other honks, not to mention the neck. The neck alone—” “Master Kiprun,” Kanifa interjected, “this is Noziken pa Dumai, Crown Princess of Seiiki.” The alchemist sleeved the fog from his eyeglasses. “Ah. Yes.” He interlocked his fingers. Each bore a ring of a different metal: gold, iron, copper. “Princess Dumai. I am Master Kiprun, who shines—well, flickers really—for the Munificent Empress. And you?” he said to Kanifa. “Who are you, the Prince of Seiiki?” “No.” Kanifa cleared his throat. “I’m just a guard, a friend to Princess Dumai. Not a noble.” “Is it not noble to be a guard?” Master Kiprun wafted a brown hand, webbed with scars from burns, like his arms. “No matter. I never understand these things. Yes, your message caught my interest, Princess Dumai of the Faraway Isle. You don’t look much like a princess,” he said, cocking his head. “Aren’t you suppose to wear a crown, or something?” Dumai reunited with her tongue. “Well,” she said, indicating her headpiece, “this is—” “Madam, that is a fish.” After a moment, Dumai decided not to kick against the current. “It is a fish,” she agreed, taking a step toward him. “My fish and I flew here to seek your help, Master Kiprun.” “Yes, I did fear as much. Last time, it was a king who disturbed my work. He found me in the mountains, just to annoy me.” The alchemist snorted. “Once, it was the poor who sought my services, asking me to turn grass to gold. They were, at least, polite, if wildly optimistic. Now I am summoned hither and thither, disturbed by everyone from Golümtan to Ginura.

The two men, unable to see each other, kept silent till the lighter, slipping before the fitful breeze, passed out between almost invisible headlands into the still deeper darkness of the gulf. For a time the lantern on the jetty shone after them. The wind failed, then fanned up again, but so faintly that the big, half-decked boat slipped along with no more noise than if she had been suspended in the air. ‘We are out in the gulf now,’ said the calm voice of Nostromo. A moment after he added, ‘Señor Mitchell has lowered the light.’ ‘Yes,’ said Decoud; ‘nobody can find us now.’ A great recrudescence of obscurity embraced the boat. The sea in the gulf was as black as the clouds above. Nostromo, after striking a couple of matches to get a glimpse of the boat-compass he had with him in the lighter, steered by the feel of the wind on his cheek. It was a new experience for Decoud, this mysteriousness of the great waters spread out strangely smooth, as if their restlessness had been crushed by the weight of that dense night. The Placido was sleeping profoundly under its black ponho. The main thing now for success was to get away from the coast and gain the middle of the gulf before day broke. The Isabels were somewhere at hand. ‘On your left as you look forward, señor,’ said Nostromo suddenly. When his voice ceased, the enormous stillness, without light or sound, seemed to affect Decoud’s senses like a powerful drug. He didn’t even know at times whether he were asleep or awake. Like a man lost in slumber, he heard nothing, he saw nothing. Even his hand held before his face did not exist for his eyes. The change from the agitation, the passions and the dangers, from the sights and sounds of the shore, was so complete that it would have resembled death had it not been for the survival of his thoughts. In this foretaste of eternal peace they floated vivid and light, like unearthly clear dreams of earthly things that may haunt the souls freed by death from the misty atmosphere of regrets and hopes. Decoud shook himself, shuddered a bit, though the air that drifted past him was warm. He had the strangest sensation of his soul having just returned into his body from the circumambient darkness in which land, sea, sky, the mountains, and the rocks were as if they had not been.

She stared out. She saw a vastness, a rising shape, indistinct in the rain, gray in the misty drizzle. At first she had thought it was a cloud, a great bank of fog drifting up over the mountains, but now she realized with a cold awe that it was real, a vast building climbing the mountainside, rising in a countless series of rooms, stairways, balconies, and galleries, far away and immense, its topmost roofs white with snow. And up there, like a needle sharp with ice, one uttermost pinnacle flew the remote black pennant of the Watch. The Tower of Song.

From the long walk, distancing away from the coastal wave of sea, to be dissolved in the wide angle landscape of a misty mountain, to keep my ear open for the bird chirping, crows taunting, the breeze silent whisper which was welcoming and just making me feel very special. It was the change I saw in my space where peace was welcoming and passion was disowning me. When I saw the farmers cutting the new crop, the river falling through the hills. Everything looked so perfect and my escape to wander was the right one. Nature is my mother and travel is my father. Every village I passed by pictured them as most ancient yet distant chateau. The moving car, dining seat, singing and shaking gently in the dark, haunting past and welcoming future, took commitment with all nature associations outside of itself seem vaguely unreal. Hence they welcomed me at their table, for them I was one of them, a traveler, a vagabond, not one of those wraiths through whose night-lit cities I passed. Our destinations become a heart of who has the hunger to explore it. Good morning

Ever since the fall of the Great Goblin of the Misty Mountains the hatred of their race for the dwarves had been rekindled to fury.

Far over the misty mountains cold To dungeons deep and caverns old We must away ere break of day To seek the pale enchanted gold. The dwarves of yore made mighty spells, While hammers fell like ringing bells In places deep, where dark things sleep, In hollow halls beneath the fells. For ancient king and elvish lord There many a gleaming golden hoard They shaped and wrought, and light they caught To hide in gems on hilt of sword. On silver necklaces they strung The flowering stars, on crowns they hung The dragon-fire, in twisted wire They meshed the light of moon and sun. Far over the misty mountains cold To dungeons deep and caverns old We must away, ere break of day, To claim our long-forgotten gold. Goblets they carved there for themselves And harps of gold; where no man delves There lay they long, and many a song Was sung unheard by men or elves. The pines were roaring on the height, The winds were moaning in the night. The fire was red, it flaming spread; The trees like torches blazed with light. The bells were ringing in the dale And men looked up with faces pale; The dragon’s ire more fierce than fire Laid low their towers and houses frail. The mountain smoked beneath the moon; The dwarves, they heard the tramp of doom. They fled their hall to dying fall Beneath his feet, beneath the moon. Far over the misty mountains grim To dungeons deep and caverns dim We must away, ere break of day, To win our harps and gold from him!

Far over the misty mountains cold To dungeons deep and caverns old We must away, ere break of day, To find our long-forgotten gold. Bilbo

There is nothing as powerful to the human psyche as the mental image educed by viewing a magnificent vista. We comprehend the paltriest of our bodies whenever a single person travels across an open desert or an immense prairie, stands on top of a mountain range, walks in the sand in front of a furious sea, or lies on their back and takes in the magnificence of the misty span of the Milky Way. Each act of magnification places us in touch with the finiteness and irrelevance of our trifling personhood. We can only view the broad expanse of the desert and steppe, the sheerness of a mountaintop, the immensity of the sea, and the immeasurable vastness of the galaxy with an overpowering sense of both horror and awe as their grand span transcends human scale. The overpowering physicality of these vistas stands as a testament to their cold indifference to the mortality of humankind. The sheer immensity of nature’s breadth beseeches us to consider the unthinkable: we are transient beings. We are mortal; we are mere sparklers burning fitfully until our spurting light completely fizzles out.

This is a wicked, fallen world. But He’s stronger than the world. He wants to be your strength. He loves you and Dahlia more than you can imagine.

How do you come to know this God? How do you let Him know if you want to believe in and love Him?” A beautiful smile spread over her face. “That’s the easiest part. Just accept God’s love for you. Believe that he sent His son to die a horrible death so you could have a new life serving him. Place your life in his Hands and choose to live for Him. He’ll give you a fresh start as His daughter. He’s just waiting for you to ask.

Far over the misty mountains cold To dungeons deep and caverns old We must away ere break of day To seek the pale enchanted gold.

Far over the misty mountains cold To dungeons deep and caverns old We must away, ere break of day, To find our long-forgotten gold.

Did she dare lift her own petition to the Almighty? He might ignore her since she'd avoided Him for so long.

He stood there in the deepest black of night, and Misty knew that he was praying for her. She could almost feel the words lift up between the trees like fog rising from the mountains.

Dolly’s house was a fifteen-minute drive from Misty’s trailer. It wasn’t a long trip, but there was something about the mountains that made it seem much longer. There was so much more than just distance between them. There were thousands of trees and brambles and vines, endless pounds of kudzu, countless dips and hollows and bumps. There were a dozen hollers between Misty’s and her aunts, and each of them had families and creeks and pets and people of their own. And every one between them added to the weight and the distance so that going to Dolly’s house felt like a great journey

I once saw him sitting all alone on the top of the Carrock at night watching the moon sinking towards the Misty Mountains, and I heard him growl in the tongue of bears: ‘The day will come when they will perish and I shall go back!’ That is why I believe he once came from the mountains himself.

Eriador was of old the name of all the lands between the Misty Mountains and the Blue; in the South it was bounded by the Greyflood and the Glanduin that flows into it above Tharbad. ‘At its greatest Arnor included all Eriador, except the regions beyond the Lune, and the lands east of Greyflood and Loudwater, in which lay Rivendell and Hollin.

His antlers trace celestial arcs in the misty dawn, a kaleidoscope of shapes that play with the first timid rays of light.

1. Sri Lanka’s Cultural and Historical Richness "Sri Lanka is a place where history lives in harmony with the present. From ancient temples to colonial fortresses, every corner of this island tells a story." Sri Lanka’s history stretches over 2,500 years, featuring incredible landmarks like the Sigiriya Rock Fortress and Anuradhapura's ancient ruins. The country is also home to the famous Temple of the Tooth in Kandy, an important religious site for Buddhists around the world. Each historic site tells a different story, making Sri Lanka a treasure trove of cultural and spiritual experiences. Find out more about planning a visit here. ________________________________________ 2. Nature’s Bounty and Biodiversity "In Sri Lanka, nature isn't merely observed; it's experienced with all the senses — from the scent of spice plantations to the sight of vibrant tea terraces and the sound of waves on pristine beaches." Sri Lanka’s national parks, like Yala and Udawalawe, are among the best places to see elephants, leopards, and a diverse range of bird species. The island’s ecosystems, from rainforests to coastal mangroves, create an incredible array of landscapes for nature lovers to explore. For those planning to visit these natural wonders, start your journey with a visa application. ________________________________________ 3. Sri Lankan Hospitality and Warmth "The true beauty of Sri Lanka is found in its people — hospitable, welcoming, and ready to share a smile or story over a cup of tea." The warmth of Sri Lankans is a common highlight for visitors, whether encountered in bustling cities or quiet villages. Tourists are frequently invited to join meals or participate in local festivities, making Sri Lanka a welcoming destination for international travelers. To experience this hospitality firsthand, ensure you have the right travel documents, accessible here. ________________________________________ 4. Beaches and Scenic Coastal Areas "Sri Lanka’s coastline is a place where sun meets sand, and every wave brings with it a sense of peace." With over 1,300 kilometers of beautiful coastline, Sri Lanka offers something for everyone. The south coast is famous for relaxing beaches like Unawatuna and Mirissa, while the east coast’s Arugam Bay draws surfing enthusiasts from around the globe. To enjoy these beaches, start by obtaining a Sri Lanka visa. ________________________________________ 5. Tea Plantations and the Hill Country "The heart of Sri Lanka beats in the hill country, where misty mountains and lush tea plantations stretch as far as the eye can see." The central highlands of Sri Lanka, with towns like Ella and Nuwara Eliya, are dotted with tea plantations that produce some of the world’s finest teas. Visiting a tea plantation offers a chance to see tea processing and sample fresh brews, with the cool climate adding to the serene experience. Secure your entry to the hill country with a visa application. ________________________________________ 6. Sri Lankan Cuisine: A Feast for the Senses "In Sri Lanka, food is more than sustenance — it’s an art form, a burst of flavors that range from spicy curries to sweet desserts." Sri Lankan cuisine is a rich blend of spices and textures. Popular dishes like rice and curry, hoppers, and kottu roti offer a true taste of the island. Food tours and local markets provide immersive culinary experiences, allowing visitors to discover the flavors of Sri Lanka. For a trip centered on food and culture, start your journey here.

The Advent of Karna Now the feats of arm are ended, and the closing hour draws nigh, Music's voice is hushed in silence, and dispersing crowds pass by, Hark! Like welkin-shaking thunder wakes a deep and deadly sound, Clank and din of warlike weapons burst upon the tented ground! Are the solid mountains splitting, is it bursting of the earth, Is it tempest's pealing accent whence the lightning takes its birth? Thoughts like these alarm the people for the sound is dread and high, To the gate of the arena turns the crowd with anxious eye! Gathered round preceptor Drona, Pandu's sons in armour bright, Like the five-starred constellation round the radiant Queen of Night, Gathered round the proud Duryodhan, dreaded for his exploits done, All his brave and warlike brothers and preceptor Drona's son, So the gods encircled Indra, thunder-wielding, fierce and bold, When he scattered Danu's children in the misty days of old! Pale, before the unknown warrior, gathered nations part in twain, Conqueror of hostile cities, lofty Karna treads the plain! In his golden mail accoutred and his rings of yellow gold, Like a moving cliff in stature, arméd comes the chieftain bold! Pritha, yet unwedded, bore him, peerless archer on the earth, Portion of the solar radiance, for the Sun inspired his birth! Like a tusker in his fury, like a lion in his ire, Like the sun in noontide radiance, like the all-consuming fire! Lion-like in build and muscle, stately as a golden palm, Blessed with every very manly virtue, peerless warrior proud and calm! With his looks serene and lofty field of war the chief surveyed, Scarce to Kripa or to Drona honour and obeisance made! Still the panic-stricken people viewed him with unmoving gaze, Who may be this unknown warrior, questioned they in hushed amaze! Then in voice of pealing thunder spake fair Pritha's eldest son Unto Arjun, Pritha's youngest, each, alas! to each unknown! “All thy feats of weapons, Arjun, done with vain and needless boast, These and greater I accomplish—witness be this mighty host!” Thus spake proud and peerless Karna in his accents deep and loud, And as moved by sudden impulse leaped in joy the listening crowd! And a gleam of mighty transport glows in proud Duryodhan's heart, Flames of wrath and jealous anger from the eyes of Arjun start! Drona gave the word, and Karna, Pritha's war-beloving son, With his sword and with his arrows did the feats by Arjun done!

her gaze to the copper-colored foal who sniffed his way up her arm. “Hmm… His coloring and thick body remind

Shadows stretched from one side of the street to the other, reaching up the walls like fingers as the street lamps came on. In the north, a bank of dark clouds was building above the ridge of mountains, the tops of Buchanan and Crandell already fading into misty half-light. The last pigmented bands of sunset gilded the sides of buildings in orange light, but the rattle of wind against the panes of glass brought with it a promise of rain. Autumn was coming, but no one save Hunter Slate seemed to notice the change.

When the spill was cleaned, she reached to take the pot from Gideon’s hands. He didn’t release it. Reluctantly, she raised her head to see if he was angry. It wasn’t anger that darkened his face, but amusement. His dark green eyes danced and his lips pursed, rising on his left side to create the most gorgeous dimple. Her insides

She turned then, and he felt himself falling into the depths of her green gaze. Her eyes were windows, displaying her innermost thoughts. In them was vulnerability…and something else. Trust? Before he could be sure, she dropped her gaze, a deeper red suffusing her cheeks. His hands itched to touch her face, so soft and inviting. He would raise her chin for another look through that window. For some reason, he wanted to know what this woman thought. How she felt about this place…about her life…about him.

It’s the first snow of the winter.” “It’s beautiful.” She spoke softly, not wanting to break the spell created by the darkness, the snow, and his nearness. The flurries were coming thicker now. “Yes, it is.” His voice was low, husky. She turned to look at him and found his gaze intent on her. Leah’s breath caught. His amazing green eyes, looking at her that way…

The look of joy that flowed over her face sent a thrill through his chest. He would have fought a hundred Indians single-handed to bring on that expression again.

Is everything all right, Leah?” At the sound of Miri’s voice, he glanced over at his sister. She’d dropped the quilt squares she’d been sewing and was looking at her friend expectantly. He turned his attention to Leah, who continued to stare out the window as if she hadn’t heard. His chest squeezed at the tension that radiated from her shoulders. Finally she sighed, a long mournful sound. When she spoke, her voice was almost swallowed by the glass pane in front of her and the sea of darkness beyond. “I was just thinking now that my leg is healed, it’s time for me to move on.” All of his muscles tensed, as if fending off an attack. Before he could stop himself, the words in his heart spilled out. “You can’t leave.

If you really want to leave, we could probably hike out on snowshoes. It’d take at least a day, prob’ly two. It’s up to you.” She didn’t turn, and after a while he wondered if she’d heard him. Her voice was small when she spoke. “No, I’d rather wait.” He didn’t question too strongly the relief that flooded through him.

It was getting harder to remind himself he wasn’t going to let another person close to him again. With the spunk, wisdom and sheer determination she contained in that pretty little package, Leah could easily fit into his world like his buckskin gloves fit his hands.

I’m sorry,” she whispered. It was all he could do not to pull her to him and kiss her until all the pain in his body and soul was gone. Instead, he slipped his hand around her soft, slender one, then raised it to his lips. He meant to kiss the tops of her fingers, like a knight greeting his princess. But his mouth found its way to the soft, fleshy part of her palm. He savored a single kiss, then his eyes found her gaze again. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for.

Gideon’s thumb stroked her side, and the coarse stubble on his chin brushed her forehead as his lips touched her skin. “I’m sorry, love. I won’t let him hurt you again.” Snuggled under his protective arm, Leah could almost believe him.

I don’t think you’ve carried me since you broke my leg,” she said, not able to resist a little teasing. He raised an eyebrow. “You had to go and bring that up, did ya?” An impish grin came over his face. “I guess it was the only thing I could think of at the time to keep you here.” “Oh!” Leah blustered, then caught the twinkle in his emerald eyes. “You rascal.

Leah, I was crazy to let you leave. Will you ever forgive me?” What? His face was earnest, waiting for an answer. But what was he asking? “Forgive you?” His emerald eyes twinkled, and a dimple flashed in his right cheek. “Yes, and marry me?” She might have been knocked senseless…seeing stars…almost incoherent. “Ww…what?” He stepped forward and reached up to cradle her cheek. His touch was warm and inviting. “I’m sorry, Leah. I’m not very good at this.” Her chest hammered. Her breath still wouldn’t come. “Good at what?” “At saying what’s in my heart. At telling you how much I love you.

For some reason, Leah struggled to carry on a casual conversation. She couldn’t make sense of this new, happier Gideon. She picked at the eggs on her plate, spearing a few onto her fork. She raised her eyes to sneak a glance at him. He was watching her, unashamed. He didn’t look away, didn’t say anything, but the tips of his mouth quirked upward in a grin. Who was this man?

I send thee, love, this upland flower I found While wandering lonely with o'erclouded heart, Hid in a grey recess of rocky ground Among the misty mountains far apart; And then I heard the wild wind's luring sound Which whoso trusts, is healed of earthborn care, And watched the lofty ridges loom around, Yet yearned in vain their secret faith to share. When lo! the sudden sunlight, sparkling keen, Poured full upon the vales this glorious day, And bared the abiding mountain-tops serene, And swept the shifting vapour-wreaths away: Then with the hills' true heart my heart beat true, Heavens opened, cloud-thoughts vanished, and I knew.

When heavy cloud decks enveloped the planet, they created a whole new surface that had never before existed, of high mountain ranges, tumbling ravines. Sometimes the clouds would create huge cliffs, sheer walls miles high into which shadows fell to give them a startling sense of solidity, as though the whiteness below was some Antarctic winter mountain scene now spread across all the visible world. No oceans, no land surface, only that startling, shifting panorama, and then, suddenly, it became something else. Ethereal clouds. Some were misty, others wispy, but most were ghostlike. They appeared everywhere or strangely vanished, then showed up again, brushing the edges of islands and the shores of continents. They were members of the cloud family, a living race dancing and floating above the planetary surface. Astonished, awed, he had the strangest thought that perhaps this is what the angels could see . . . Deke gloried

The Resonance of Honeyed Summer Elizabethan Sonnet Sequence abab, cdcd, efef, gg Synchronous in honeyed summer sings a choir of tremulous birch leaves, A sweet breeze surges south from the mountains to cool down the farm. To a white picket fence, among the honeybees, a steadfast garden cleaves, After blind disregard by a town plow, mended again from winter harm. A sensual scent of new mown meadow, the clash of croquet mallet to ball, A ricochet sings a tin din of two wickets and a knock into a winning stake. By the barn, night owls howl, by day gleeful wee hummingbirds enthrall. The mirth of dipping children as wakes of droning motorboats lap a lake. Bluebirds have woven a love nest in a stilted, rough-hewn, wooden house. By a stonewall wild berries grow swollen from green to a misty blue hue. As we ride bikes beside a hayfield, we rouse the flight of a russet grouse. At dawn a doe and fawn cross our lawn leaving hoof prints upon the dew. In long lemonade days, rocking and sipping on the porch, in our defense, We're in awe of honeyed summertime and the harmony of its resonance. + + +

This cloistered existence which is so austere, so depressing, a few of whose features we have just traced, is not life, for it is not liberty; it is not the tomb, for it is not plenitude; it is the strange place whence one beholds, as from the crest of a lofty mountain, on one side the abyss where we are, on the other, the abyss whither we shall go; it is the narrow and misty frontier separating two worlds, illuminated and obscured by both at the same time, where the ray of life which has become enfeebled is mingled with the vague ray of death; it is the half obscurity of the tomb.

Far over the misty mountains grim To dungeons deep and caverns dim

God has you safe in His hands, love. And you can know for sure I’ll be praying for you every step of the way.

Mr. Jones’s eyes were closed. His head was bandaged like a mummy’s and tubes came out of his arm, connecting him to a number of bottles overhead. Wires from his chest connected him on the other side of the bed to a little television set that went beep, beep, beep. A line on the television set went up and down like a mountain range. “Does that look right to you?” Denny asked Spence. “Looks fine,” said Mr. Jones abruptly. “When it goes all flat and starts whistling you got something to worry about.” He opened his eyes and smiled at them. “Mr. Jones!” said Denny. “You’re okay?” “Of course I’m okay. I’ve had hangovers that felt worse than this.” Denny and Spence laughed. “Did they get those hoodlums?” Mr. Jones asked. Spence nodded. “They got most of the money back too,” he said. “All except about ten dollars.” “That’s what I get for keeping my money under my mattress like an old fool,” said Mr. Jones. “Is Marty okay?” Denny smiled. “He got banged up some,” she said, “but he’s okay—obnoxious as ever.” Spence laughed. “Yeah,” he said, “and from what the police say, the kid that he tangled with got the worst end of the deal.” Mr. Jones smiled and shook his head.

But that was still the problem. When you loved someone, eventually that person would be wrenched away from you. Either now or when you were both gray and wrinkled - or any moment in between.

She wasn't normally given to talking over much, but something about this man made her want to step forward and poke his chest. Move into his space and push until she cracked the grumpy facade he wore like porcupine quills.

Sometimes it seemed Faith saw the parts of him he did his best to hide. But the biggest wonder was that his weaknesses didn't push her away. Instead, she pressed in harder.

tingle spread over Juniper’s arms, even as pain squeezed her heart. Oh, Papa. She’d known he loved them. He’d shown it every time he took them for horseback rides, or told stories in the evening, or taught them the inner workings of the ranch, of his life. But more than that, it was the way his eyes shone when he caught sight of one of them. That look of love sparkled in their depths. Even these past years, when he’d sank into melancholy in their Richmond home, he’d still worked hard for a smile for any of his daughters.

Over the misty mountains cold To dungeons deep and caverns old We must away ere break of day To seek the pale enchanted gold. The dwarves of yore made mighty spells, While hammers fell like ringing bells In places deep, where dark things sleep, In hallows halls beneath the fells. For ancient kind and elvish lord There many a gleaming golden hoard They shaped and wrought, and light they caught To hide in gems on hilt of sword. On silver necklaces they strung The flowering stars, on crowns they hung The dragon-fire, in twisted wire They meshed the light of moon and sun. Far over the misty mountains cold To dungeons deep and caverns old We must away, ere break of day, To claim our long-forgotten gold. Goblets they carved there for themselves And harps of gold; where no man delves There lay they long, and many a song Was sung unheard by men or elves. The pines were roaring on the height, The winds were moaning in the night. The fire was red, it flaming spread; The trees like torches blazed with light. The bells were ringing in the dale And men looked up with faces pale; The dragon's ire more fierce than fire Laid low their towers and houses frail. The mountain smoked beneath the moon; The dwarves, they heard the tramp of doom. They fled their hall to dying fall Beneath his feet, beneath the moon. For over the misty mountains grim To dungeons deep and caverns dim We must away, ere break of day , To win our harps and gold from him!

behind but gaining on the Orcs, gaining on them like a tide over the flats on folk straying in a quicksand. The Isengarders began to run with a redoubled pace that astonished Pippin, a terrific spurt it seemed for the end of a race. Then he saw that the sun was sinking, falling behind the Misty Mountains; shadows reached over the land. The soldiers of Mordor lifted their heads and also began to put on speed. The forest was dark and close. Already they had passed a few outlying trees. The land was beginning to slope upwards, ever more steeply; but the Orcs did not halt. Both Uglúk and Grishnákh shouted, spurring them on to a last effort. ‘They will make it yet. They will escape,’ thought Pippin. And then he managed to twist his neck, so as to glance back with one eye over his shoulder. He saw that riders away eastward were already level with the Orcs, galloping over the plain. The sunset gilded their spears and helmets, and glinted in their pale flowing hair. They were hemming the Orcs in, preventing

Protect these two children, Lord. Help them, and give them courage to meet whatever danger arises, and we know that whatever they have is in your hands, and when we put our lives in your hands, all things will be very well. I ask you to watch over them, to build a fence around them so that evil cannot come in, and I ask it in the powerful name of Jesus Christ.

Baker’s love of the Essex landscape is already clear, and, long before he is following peregrines, he is rehearsing some of the writing that appears in his later work: ‘The loveliest country of all lies between Gt. Baddow and West Hanningfield. Green undulating fields, rugged, furrowed earth, luscious orchards, pine clumps, rows of stately elms – all these combine and resolve into a delicately balanced landscape that can never become tedious to the eye. One cannot get far from people – from the little rustic cottages that huddle in the winding lanes. Yet the very proximity of these dwellings seems to give an impression of remoteness. / As you walk across these fields – Danbury stands all green and misty blue in the late afternoon of declining summer. Everchanging – sometimes assuming truly mountainous grandeur – it fascinates the eyes and brings an exaltation and a faith. / These last days of summer are delicate poems in green and gold – the clouds unfurl in unsurpassed magnificence and move me to tears for their passing. / This country with its little fields and murmuring streams that basks in its waning summer gold will still be there when you return – it is for you and all men, for it is beauty.

Father." Alex's voice filled the room. "Thank You for the food, and especially for the people at this table. I pray You'll give us strength and wisdom as we share Your love with those around us." Bryan couldn't help but examine the way his brother spoke to the Lord. Earnestly. With reverence, sure, but as though he really believed God would give them strength and wisdom. Just because he asked.

No, not alone. With God’s help, she could accomplish anything.

If you see any good in me, anything that inspires trust, it’s God’s spirit who dwells within me. He is the good in my life. My strength. My peace.

God's given me so many wonderful memories, Clara Lee. Now it's my time to bless Him back. Sometimes I think I'd get so caught up in the beauty of the sunrise, I'd forget about the One who made it for me. Now, my focus is on Him.