just things I ponder

… I have a hut in the wood, none knows it but my Lord; an ash tree this side, a hazel on the other, a great tree on a mound encloses it.

Two heathery door-posts for support, and a lintel of honey-suckle; around its close the wood sheds its nuts upon fat swine.

The size of my hut, small yet not small, a place of familiar paths; the she-bird in its dress of blackbird colour sings a melodious strain from its gable.

The stags of Druim Rolach leap out of its stream of trim meadows; from them red Roighne can be seen, noble Mucraimhe and Maenmhagh. 

A little hidden lowly hut, which owns the path-filled forest; will you go with me to see it? …

A tree of apples of great bounty, …, huge; a seemly crop from small-nutted branching green hazels, in clusters like a fist.

Excellent fresh springs — a cup of water, splendid to drink — they gush forth abundantly; yew berries, bird-cherries …

Tame swine lie down around it, goats, young pigs, wild swine, tall deer, does, a badger’s brood.

Peaceful, in crowds, a grave host of the countryside, an assembly at my house; foxes come to the wood before it — it is delightful …

Fruits of rowan, black sloes of the dark blackthorn; foods of whorts, spare berries …

A clutch of eggs, honey, produce of heath-peas, God has sent it; sweet apples, red bog-berries, whortleberries.

Beer with herbs, a patch of strawberries, delicious abundance; haws, yew berries, kernels of nuts.

A cup of mead from the goodly hazel-bush, quickly served; brown acorns, manes of briar, with fine blackberries.

In summer with its pleasant, abundant mantle, with good-tasting savour, there are pignuts, wild marjoram, the cresses of the stream — green purity !

The songs of the bright-breasted ring-doves, a beloved movement, the carol of the thrush, pleasant and familiar above my house.

Swarms of bees, beetles, soft music of the world, a gentle humming; wild geese, barnacle geese, shortly before All Hallows, music of the dark torrent.

A nimble singer, the combative brown wren from the hazel bough, woodpeckers with their pied hoods in a vast host.

Fair white birds come, cranes, seagulls, the sea sings to them, no mournful music; brown fowl out of the red heather.

The heifer is noisy in summer, brightest of weather; not bitter or toilsome over the mellow plain, delightful, smooth.

The voice of the wind against the branchy wood, grey with cloud; cascades of the river, the swan’s song, lovely music.

A beautiful pine makes music to me, it is not hired; through Christ, I fare no worse at any time than you do.

Though you delight in your own enjoyments, greater than all wealth, for my part I am grateful for what is given me from my dear Christ.

Without an hour of quarrel, without the noise of strife which disturbs you, grateful to the Prince who gives every good to me in my hut …

Irish; author unknown; tenth century