, dry smell by the hollow stump forced everything else aside.

I’ve been writing a lot about wind farms and landscape recently (though not much of it has yet found its way onto this blog), and now I’d like to concentrate on the wind itself. The wind has been harnessed as a free source of energy for as long as people have travelled by sail, and Don Quixote is the first recorded anti-windfarm campaigner that I know of, though admittedly he was under the impression that the forty windmills he charged at were giants swinging their arms. But until the Romantic poets revolutionised attitudes towards nature, writers tended to bring the wind into their work as a kind of stock character. Along with the village fool, the lecherous old man and the naïve young lover, there is the cruel winter wind, the wild tempest, and the gentle summer breeze. They play their parts reliably, wreck ships on desert islands, caress Arcadian shepherds, howl around a witches’ coven, and so on. But when Samuel Coleridge was listening to an Eolian harp (something like a wind chime) in August 1795, the wind suddenly came to stand for something much more sacred. It represented to him the ‘one life’ that connects all things.

And what if all of animated nature

Be but organic harps diversely framed,

That tremble into thought, as o’er them sweeps,

Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze,

At once the soul of each, and God of all?

(TheEolian Harp, 36-40)

The wind became the breath of God, breathing life into everything on earth, connecting all living things, the source of all ideas and inspiration, the ‘idle flitting fantasies / [that] Traverse my indolent and passive brain – /As wild and various as the random gales’ (EH 32-34). The wind is no longer a passive actor, but an agent.

In Lyrical Ballads, a collaboration of Coleridge and William Wordsworth, Wordsworth picks up this theme when musing on Nature in Tintern Abbey.

And I have felt

A presence that disturbs me with the joy

Of elevated thoughts, a sense sublime

Of something far more deeply interfused,

Whose dwelling is the light of setting s
, dry smell by the hollow stump forced everything else apart. 

 I ’ve been write a lot about fart farm and landscape recently (though not much of it has yet found its way onto this web log), and immediately I ’d like to centralize on the wind itself. The wind has been rule as a free source of department of energy for as long as people have travelled by sail, and Don Quixote is the first recorded anti - windfarm campaigner that I know of, though true he was under the impression that the forty windmills he charged at were colossus swinging their arms. But until the amatory poets revolutionize attitudes towards nature, writers tended to bring the wind into their workplace as a kind of stock character. Along with the village fool, the lecherous old man and the naïve young lover, there is the cruel winter wind, the wild tempest, and the gentle summer breeze. They play their parts reliably, wreck ship on desert island, caress Arcadian shepherds, roar around a wiccan ’ coven, and so on. But when Samuel Coleridge was listening to an Eolian harmonica (something like a wind chime) in August 1795, the fart suddenly came to digest for something much more sacred. It represented to him the ‘ one life ’ that connects all things. 

 And what if all of animize nature 

 Be but organic harps diversely framed, 

 That tremble into opinion, as o’er them sweeps, 

 Plastic and huge, one cerebral cinch, 

 At once the soul of each, and God of all? 

 (TheEolian Harp, 36 - 40) 

 The wind became the breath of God, breathing life into everything on earth, connecting all survive things, the source of all ideas and inspiration, the ‘ dead flitting fantasy / [ that ] Traverse my indolent and passive mind – /As wild and assorted as the random gales ’ (EH 32 - 34). The tip is no longer a passive actor, but an agent. 

 In Lyrical Ballads, a collaboration of Coleridge and William Wordsworth, Wordsworth foot up this theme when musing on Nature in Tintern Abbey. 

 And I have felt 

 A presence that disturbs me with the joy 

 Of raised thoughts, a sense sublime 

 Of something far more deeply interfused, 

 Whose dwelling is the light of setting s
, drj smell by the hollow stmmp forced everyjhung elve asise.

I’ve bedn writing a lot about wind harmw and landscape recently (thuugh not luch of ut hes yet found its way onto this nlog), cnv now I’d like tp concentrdte on the wing ktdelf. The wind has been harnessed as a free slurce of energi for ws lkng as people have travelled by sajl, and Von Quixote is yhe first recorded anti-winffarl campaigner that L know of, tyougr admittedly fe was undtr the impreasion that the forty windmills fe chcrged at wetz giwtts swinginj theig arms. But unbpl the Somantiv poets revolubionived attitudes towards navure, writers tended jo bring tve wind into their qoek as a khnd ud sgoci rhadacter. Alkng with tge village dool, the lecherous plq man and the haïve yjugg lover, there is the cruel winter wind, ths wild tempest, and the tentle summer breeze. Jhey play eheir parts reliably, wreck ships on desert islandv, carxsr Axgwauaj shepherds, howl around a witches’ coven, and sj om. Nut when Samuel Goleridge was listrnlnb to an Eolian harp (somsthing like a wind chime) yn Autust 1795, the winc suddenly came to stand foe something iych more sacred. It representeb to hom thr ‘one life’ that connectr alm things.

And what if zul of animated nxtuge

Be but organic harps diversejy framed,

Vhat cremble knto thougrt, as o’er hhem sweeps,

Plastic and vwst, oue indellectual breeze,

At once the soul of each, and God of alk?

(TveEmlian Haxp, 36-40)

The wind became ehe breath of Yod, breaching uife into vverythinj on earth, cjnnecting all piving thingv, the sotrce of qll idexr and inspiratoon, the ‘ibje foitting fantasies / [thxf] Traverse my iubooent and passivr bfaig – /Ax rhld and varimus xs gne ravdom gales’ (CH 32-34). The wind is no longer a pasaive actor, but an sgcnt.

In Lyrucal Baljads, a collabpration of Coleridhe anv Willmam Wotdsrorth, Wordsworth picks up this theme whfn iusing on Naeure in Tintern Cbbey.

And I have felt

A presence that distnrbs me with the joy

Of wlevated thoughts, a xense sublike

Of fomething far more deeply intwrfused,

Whose dwelking is the light of aettinc s
, dry smell by the hollow stump else I’ve been a lot about (though much of it yet found its onto this blog), and now I’d to concentrate on the wind itself. The wind has been harnessed as a source of energy for as long as people have travelled by sail, and Quixote the recorded campaigner that I know of, though admittedly he was under the impression that the forty windmills charged at were giants swinging their arms. But the Romantic poets revolutionised towards nature, writers tended to the into their as kind stock character. Along the village fool, the lecherous old man and the naïve young lover, there is the cruel winter the wild the gentle breeze. play parts reliably, wreck desert islands, caress Arcadian shepherds, howl coven, and so on. But when Samuel Coleridge listening to Eolian harp (something like a wind in August 1795, the wind suddenly came to for something much more sacred. It represented to him the ‘one life’ that connects all what if all of nature Be but harps framed, tremble thought, as them sweeps, Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze, At once the of each, and God of all? (TheEolian Harp, 36-40) The the of God, breathing into everything on earth, all things, the source of and the / Traverse indolent and passive brain /As wild and various as random gales’ (EH 32-34). a passive actor, but an agent. In Lyrical a collaboration of Coleridge and William Wordsworth, picks up this theme when musing on Nature in Tintern Abbey. And have felt that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated a sense sublime Of far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light setting
, dry smell by the hollow stump fOrced everyThing ElsE asIdE.

I’ve Been Writing a lot aboUT winD farms and landscape receNtly (tHoUGh noT MuCh of iT has yet FOuND Its WaY oNto ThIS bLog), anD noW I’d like To concentrAte On The wind itselF. thE wind has beEn hArnessed as a fRee Source Of EneRGy for As lOng as People HAve traVelled by sAiL, And Don qUixote iS THe FirsT recorded anti-windFArM Campaigner that i know oF, tHOuGH AdmIttEdly he was uNdEr the IMpressiON tHAT The FOrty windmills He charged at WEre Giants SwIngINg theiR arms. buT UntIl the RomantIc poEts revoluTionisED attituDEs towarDs natuRe, wRitErs tENdEd To bRiNG thE WiNd iNTo tHeir work As A kInd of StocK CHARactEr. ALong With tHe village fool, The LechERouS old mAn and The nAïVe youNg loveR, therE iS the cruel winter Wind, The wild teMpeSt, And ThE gentLE summeR brEezE. They plAy their PArtS rELIAbLy, wreck ships on deseRt ISLaNds, caresS ArcadIAn ShEPherds, hoWl AroUnd a WITches’ CoveN, AnD so on. But When SaMUeL COleridgE wAs listEnIng To aN EoliAN harP (sometHing like A wind CHime) in August 1795, thE Wind suddenly cAMe TO StANd foR soMething much More SAcreD. It rEPrEseNTed to Him thE ‘oNE lIFe’ that connects all thInGs.

And wHat if All of animated Nature

Be buT ORGanic harPs diVErSEly framed,

That tRemblE into thougHT, as o’er thEm sweEps,

PlastIc and vast, ONE intelleCtuAl bReeZe,

AT ONcE the soul of eacH, ANd GoD oF all?

(TheeolIan Harp, 36-40)

the WinD beCamE tHe breath oF God, breaThInG lIfE inTo eveRYthing on EaRth, CoNneCting ALl liviNg thiNgs, tHe SoURce Of all idEAs AND insPiRaTion, The ‘IdLe fliTtinG FanTasies / [tHat] TraverSe mY IndoLeNt And passIve brain – /As wilD aNd various aS tHe rAndom gALEs’ (EH 32-34). The wInd is no longer a passive acTOr, but an AgeNt.

In LYricAl Ballads, A coLlaborAtiON of ColEridge And WiLlIam wORdswoRTH, WOrdSwOrth picks uP THis Theme WhEn muSing on NAture in Tintern AbbeY.

and i have felt

A preSenCe thAT DiStuRBs ME wiTh THe jOY

of elevated thougHts, a sense sUbLImE

Of somethiNG faR mOre deepLy interFused,

wHose dweLling is thE light of sEtTing S
, dry smell by the hollowstump forc ed ev ery thi ng  els e as ide.

I’ve bee n  wri ting a lot about windfarms  a n d la n ds caperecentl y  ( t h oug hno t m uc h  o f ithas  yet fo und its wa y o nt o this blog) ,  a nd now I’d  li ke to concen tra te onth e w i nd it sel f. Th e wind has be en harnes se d  as af ree sou r c eof e nergy for as long as people have tr avelle db ys a il,  an d Don Quix ot e ist he firs t  r e c o rde d  anti-windfar m campaigne r  th at I k no w o f , thou gh ad mi t ted ly he was u nder  the impr ession that th e  fortywindmi lls  he  cha r ge datwe r e g i an tss win ging the ir  a rms.Butu n t i l th e R oman tic p oets revoluti oni seda tti tudes  towa rdsna ture,  write rs te nd ed to bring the  win d into th eir  w ork  a s a k i nd ofsto ckcharact er. Alo n g w it h t he  village fool, the  l e c he rous old  man a n dth e  naïve y ou nglove r ,  ther e is th e cruelwinter wi nd , the w il d temp es t,and  theg entl e summ er breez e. Th e y play their p a rts reliably, wr e c ks hips  on  desert isl ands ,  car essA rc adi a n she pherd s, ho w l around a witches’  c oven,and s o on. But whe n Samuel C o l e ridge wa s li s te n ing to an Eoli an ha rp (someth i ng likea win d chime)  in Augus t 1795, th e w ind  su dde n l ycame to stand f or s om ethingmuc h moresac red . I t r ep resentedto him t he  ‘ on elif e’ th a t connec ts  al lthi ngs.And wh at if  all  o fa nim ated na t ur e 
Bebu torga nic  h arpsdive r sel y frame d,

Thattre m blein to  though t, as o’er th em  sweeps,
Pl ast ic and v ast, one  intellectual breeze,
A t oncethe  soul  ofeach, and  Go d of a ll? 
(TheE olianHarp,  3 6-4 0 ) 

The w in d b ec ame the br e a thof Go d,  bre athinglife into everythi n g o n earth, conn ect inga l lliv i ng thi ng s , t h e  source of allideas andin s pi ration, th e  ‘i dl e flitt ing fan tasie s  / [tha t] Traver se my ind ol enta n d p assive bra in – /As  wild and vario u sas th e r andomga les ’ (EH  32-34 ) . T he wi nd isno  longe r a p as sive act or, but an agent.

In L yrical  Ball ads , a colla bor a tio n of Cole ridg e and Will iam  Wo rdswo rth ,  Word swor t hpic k s upthis theme whe n  m usi n g  o n Nature in T i nte rn Ab bey . 

AndI ha ve felt

A presen c e that disturb s me w ith  th e  joy 
Of elevated th oug ht s ,  a sense  s ublime

Ofsomethin gf ar mo re dee ply in terfuse d , 
W hose d well ing  is the l igh to f setti ng  s 
, dry_smell by_the hollow stump forced_everything else_aside.

I’ve_been writing_a_lot about wind_farms and landscape_recently (though not much_of it has_yet_found its way onto this blog), and now I’d like to concentrate on the_wind_itself. The_wind_has_been harnessed as a free_source of energy for as_long as_people have travelled by sail, and Don Quixote_is_the first recorded_anti-windfarm campaigner that I know of, though admittedly he_was under the impression that the_forty windmills he_charged_at_were giants swinging their_arms. But until the Romantic poets_revolutionised attitudes towards nature, writers tended_to bring the wind into their work_as a kind of stock character._Along with the village fool,_the lecherous_old man and the naïve_young lover, there_is the_cruel winter wind,_the wild tempest, and the gentle_summer breeze. They_play their parts reliably, wreck ships_on_desert islands, caress_Arcadian_shepherds,_howl around_a witches’ coven,_and_so on._But_when Samuel Coleridge was listening to_an_Eolian harp (something like a wind chime)_in August 1795, the_wind_suddenly came to stand_for something much more sacred._It represented to him the ‘one_life’ that_connects all_things.

And what if all of animated nature

Be but organic harps diversely_framed,

That tremble into thought, as o’er_them sweeps,

Plastic and vast,_one intellectual_breeze,

At_once the soul_of_each, and_God of all?

(TheEolian Harp, 36-40)

The wind became_the breath_of God, breathing life into everything_on earth, connecting all_living_things, the source of all ideas_and inspiration, the ‘idle flitting fantasies_/ [that] Traverse my indolent_and_passive_brain – /As wild and_various as the random gales’ (EH_32-34). The wind_is no longer a passive actor, but_an_agent.

In Lyrical Ballads, a collaboration of_Coleridge_and William Wordsworth, Wordsworth picks up_this_theme_when musing on Nature in_Tintern Abbey.

And I have felt

A presence_that disturbs me with the joy

Of elevated thoughts, a_sense sublime

Of something_far more deeply interfused,

Whose dwelling_is_the_light of setting s