Beauty makes me cry ; she makes for me to weep. The Earth's unconquerable passion for sublimity stuns and sets me on my knees in wonder and unspeakable gratitude. Can you feel the mountain? Can you feel the pride of the land? Can you feel your heart drenched in the supersaturation of the work of Mother Earth's hands? The longing to give oneself to the land, to throw oneself upon the land, to serve and be held by the land. She is a presence more awesome and maternal than any might fathom in a hundred lifetimes. She is the root of all patriotism, the heart of loyalty, and I feel that loyalty, and woo others into fealty to her, for her daughter is Love and she the Land. From her, Love will always spring. Praise be hers, and steadfastness from men, whose hearts are too often fickle, for in buying and selling the lots whose slips mark the honor of caring and serving her, of warding and tending her, they've turned the privilege of participation into delusion of ownership, thinking they own her, when she owns all, and these slips but certificates of caretaking, price paid for the honor of reserving a seat at her table. Let us not forget the true order of things in our hubris and puffed-up self-importance. The powers beyond us, amidst us, and within us, declare that impiety.