“The English disease, a love of Nature, was inborn in her, and here where Nature was so much larger and more powerful than in England, she fell into its hands as she had never done before…
She climbed the mountains; roamed the valleys; sat on the banks of the streams. She likened the hills to ramparts, and the plains to the flanks of kine…
Trees were withered hags, and sheep were grey boulders. Everything, in fact, was something else…she prayed that she might share the majesty of the hills, know the serenity of the plains…as all such believers do. Then, looking down, the red hyacinth, the purple iris wrought her to cry out in ecstasy at the goodness, the beauty of nature; raising her eyes again, she beheld the eagle soaring, and imagined its raptures and made them her own.
Returning home, she saluted each star, each peak, and each watch-fire as if they signaled to her alone…”
A Burd in Flight 