To those who are wearied, fretted, and worried there is no physician
like nature. When our nerves are frazzled and our sleep is unrefreshing,
we can find no better antidote to the clamorous grind and frenzy of the
city than the stillness and solitude of hills, streams, and tranquil
stars. That man lays up for himself resources of strength who now and
then exchanges the ledger for green leaves, the factory for wild
flowers, business for brook-croon and bird-song.
The little cares that fretted me,
I lost them yesterday
Among the fields above the sea,
Among the winds at play;
Among the lowing of the herds,
The rustling of the trees,
Among the singing of the birds,
The humming of the bees.
The foolish fears of what may happen,
I cast them all away
Among the clover-scented grass,
Among the new-mown hay;
Among the husking of the corn
Where drowsy poppies nod,
Where ill thoughts die and good are born
Out in the fields with God.
_Elisabeth Barrett Browning._