In the running of the rivers and the cries of the flying geese and the wild winds and the lapping waves I hear the voice of the universe. Genes and chromosomes yes but also more, much more.
‘Little gusts of sunshine blew, strangely bright, and lit up the celandines at the wood’s edge, under the hazel-rods, they spangled out bright and yellow. And the wood was still, stiller, yet gusty with crossing sun. and the first windflowers were out, and all the wood seemed pale with the pallor of endless little anemones, sprinkling the shaken floor…’
or ‘Then, one day, a lovely sunny day with great tufts of primroses under the hazels, and many violets dotting the paths, she came in the afternoon to the coops and there was one tiny, tiny perky chicken tinily prancing round in front of a coop, and the mother hen clucking in terror…..’
or ‘Connie walked dimly on. From the old wood came an ancient melancholy, somehow soothing to her, better than the harsh insencience of the outer world. She liked the inwardness of the remnant of forest, the unspeaking reticence of the old trees. They seemed a very power of silence, and yet a vital presence’
or ‘She went to the wood the next day. It was a grey, still afternoon, with the dark-green dog’s mercury spreading under the hazel copse, and all the trees making a silent effort to open their buds. Today she could almost feel it in her own body, the huge heave of the sap in the ancient trees, upwards, up, up to the bud-tips, there to push into little flamey oak-leaves, bronze as blood. It was like a tide running turgid upwards, and spreading on the sky’.
from Lady Chatterley’s Lover