A green thing Most uncontrollably in solitude makes my soul wander from thoughts: our bequeathed and daily toil, to a sort of virgin wonderment at its and our very sight. How can I, a boy, a man, yes, reconcile my desire for heroness, not obligation. I want to stretch myself over everything Natural and Good, and live a life. The trees, now they, I know, are my true fathers. I hear them whisper; I am home.
— ian leach
