Now reading a collection of the poet John Clare's Autobiographical Writings as edited by Eric Robinson. I felt I needed to immerse myself in something that offered instant, rich gratification, and Clare is the man to escape to for simple wonder. There's a segment early in the Autobiographical Fragments section Robinson tentatively entitles Leisure that explodes with a sense of delight over Clare's landscape that should be offered as therapy for the depressed. One particular sentence just seems to go wonderfully, deliriously out of control:
I marked the varied colors in flat spreading fields checkerd with closes of different tinted grain like the colors in a map the copper tinted colors of clover in blossom the sun tand green of the ripening hay the lighter hues of wheat and barley intermixd with the sunny glare of the yellow c[h]arlock and the sunset imitation of the scarlet head aches with the blue corn bottles crowding thier splendid colors in large sheets over the lands and 'troubling the corn fields' with destroying beauty the different greens of the woodland trees the dark oak the paler ash the mellow Lime the white poplar peeping above the rest like leafy steeples the grey willow shining chilly in the sun as if the morning mist still lingerd in its cool green[.]
Gosh - isn't that fine!
Reading (and rereading) that and its accompanying sentences put any and all troubles I have into massive perspective.