“THERE is scarcely any earthly object,” says Burns, “gives me more – I do not know that I should call it pleasure – but something which exalts me, something which enraptures me, than to walk in the sheltered side of a wood or a high plantation, in a cloudy winter day, and hear the stormy wind howling among the trees, and raving over the plain. It is my best season for devotion: my mind is rapt up in a kind of enthusiasm to Him who, in the pompous language of the Hebrew bard, “walks on the wings of the wind.”
Burns and Nature, p.20.
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