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Reblogged maybuds
There was a time when I thought the sound of a dove cooing and flitting over a pond was sweeter than the voices
of friends. There was a time when I preferred the blackbird and the boom of a stag belling in a storm. I used to think
that the chanting of the mountain-grouse at dawn had more music than your voice, but things are different now. Still,
it would be hard to say I wouldn’t rather live above the bright lake, and eat watercress in the wood, and be away from sorrow.
Seán Hewitt, “Suibhne is wounded, and confesses”
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