The magic of moor and hill
Tunes for a Monday Morning

In a Devon Wood

In a Devon Wood

Faeries of the Wood by Alan Lee

Woodland Sentinel

Stitchwort on the Woodland Floor

Faery Queen by Alan Lee
  The Elves

    by Denise Levertov

    Elves are no smaller
    than men, and walk
    as men do, in this world,
    but with more grace than most,
    and are not immortal.

    Their beauty sets them aside
    from other men and from women
    unless a woman has that cold fire in her
    called poet: with that

    she may see them and by its light
    they know her and are not afraid
    and silver tongues of love
    flicker between them.

Faery Knight by Alan Lee

Woodland Dreaming

The First Blueblls

Faerie Court by Alan Lee

Woodland Writer & Hound

Roverandom by Alan LeeThe poem above is from Poems of Denise Levertov: 1960-1967 (New Directions, 1983); the poem in the picture captions is from The Journal of Mythic Arts (2006); the exquisite pencil drawings are by my friend & neighbor Alan Lee, who first introduced me to the Devon woods. All rights reserved by the authors & artist.


I love this. ❤️

This is so peaceful.

Another Way to Tell

“. . .by hairsbreadth, hairsbreath, on it grows.. .”
--“Tell by Nathalie Anderson

By hare’s breath, and fox breath,
By fawn’s prattle, wolf’s growl,
By dawn’s break and eve’s ache
The story is told.

By beetle’s click, by duck’s clack,
By crow’s murderous call,
By rain’s spittle, snow’s nap
The story is told.

By dew’s drip and sun drape,
By path’s winding rote,
By gate’s open, gate’s close
The story’s wound up.

©2016 Jane Yolen all rights reserved

"One;s wooden tongue sproats eloquence."
May it be.

Hi Terri

I can see why you are always living in a mystical place that delights the eye and spirit with each season. These photos are simply beautiful and make me yearn for the greenery and woods of the Northeast. I love both poems by Denise Levertov and the one by Nathalie Anderson. I can believe that elves and the hidden people are seen by poets.

As a kid growing up in upper state, New York. My cousin and I often wandered through her back woods up to a very beautiful estate owned by then a retired Senator. The wrought-iron gates to the entrance of the property were not locked in the day time and we slipped through. It was a magical place with groves of exotic trees, grape arbors, green hedges, soft hills and sprawling vines around other gates, stone walls etc. My cousin was so much in tune with the natural but domestically cultivated atmosphere of this place. She could feel the veins in a leaf, the gentle tremor of bird wings in flight, the trickling heartbeat of a stream or garden fountain. She may have been a sidhe in disguise and was never afraid of getting caught. Each time we left the place ( as secretly as we had entered it), she left part of her spirit there waiting to call us back. I always loved that about her and became the person in the family who would write about such experiences. This beautiful post today reminded me of those memories along with the poetry.

As Kids On The Desmond Estate

Karen was always luminous. The blonde intrepid
while I remained her dark-haired shadow. She pulled us
through a long tunnel of trees. The pale light of spring
poured through the branches. Their leaves
streaming in the wind like minnows. Our bodies rippled
through the cool radiance until we arrived at the gate.
An iron rib. We passed through quietly inhaling
the green breath of grass, hedge, moss and vines.
Our souls were in the garden of The Hesperides
minus the golden apples - only the gospel
saying we had sinned, trespassed on private property.

I was on edge, afraid of getting caught
but somehow she diffused into the domestic body
of its landscape. Her nails became bark, her hair the yellow wings
of a bird, her tongue the slick arch of a leaf tasting
everything the wind or rain would bring. And when we left,
most of her stayed whether peeled, shed or articulated in the language
of scent and pollen. She shifted with the time change - a cultivated
species. I was all silhouette. Her mortal outline. The ghost writer
she continues to summon.

Thank you for this!
It was a joy to be here this morning!

Hope you are feeling better!
Take care,

Hi Jane

This is priceless for the sonics alone!! I love the voice in this poem and how "the story is told and wound up". Such delicious phrases "fawn's prattle", "rain's spittle, and "snow's nap" along with many others. I both hear the rhythm of such a place and process as well as feel its magic. And that ending is just perfect -

By dew’s drip and sun drape,
By path’s winding rote,
By gate’s open, gate’s close
The story’s wound up.

So Lovely!

It. . just. . .happened. Thanks, Wendy.

This is sublime.

Elves can be seen all over the world. Mount Shasta, in northern California, is especially sacred.

Thank you for this. I hope you're feeling better!

All of the above are so mystical and refreshing. I love a forest.

Oh, this is so beautiful. Thanks

So happy I found you as I thoroughly enjoyed this post. I love your dog and all this lovely magical artwork. I lived not too far from the Moors for many years before I moved to the States 40 years ago, and was always hiking across them. I was able to visit them again last summer and I felt like I had gone home for a little while. I do love my home in Virginia but I love the Moors also and hope to go back for another visit one day. Happy Sunday to you :)

I've been reading and enjoying your blog for a year, but it's taken to comment. It's like visiting a magical land coming here, thank you

Just perfect. This is just begging for an illustration, and I wish I was a faster artist. Perhaps as I gain health and strength again I will be....

Indeed. May it be.

This is beautiful, Wendy. As though you spent at least part of your childhood in a Frances Hodgson Burnett novel. I love the way you weave the material of your life into poetry and myth.

Denise, it's always nice to meet someone else who loves Dartmoor. Welcome to Myth & Moor! There are lots of lovely people here, as you can see daily in the Comments section.

Tilly says thanks for the compliment.

Thanks for commenting, Hilary. It's always so nice to know who is out there, sharing my love for myth and books and nature. I really appreciate your kind words.

Thank you so much K.W.!

I am glad you enjoyed this!

My Best

Hi Terri

I think between living on my parents homestead in NY with woods and pond in the backyard, an old barn and other rustic intrigue, and my visits to the Desmond estate along with my cousin, I just may have. Or something similar to the scenes in her novel. So glad you enjoyed this and deeply appreciate your kind lovely comments!

Take care

Hi Jane

Sometimes it does just happen! Whether it's suddenly experiencing the story telling itself from entering its scenery or having nature's absorb one's soul upon entrance into her world. I do believe it is both sacred and spontaneous!

Thanks so much!

I like your blog. Send you link to russian 19-sentury painter, who loved mithology of native slavianian folk storyes.

I know and love his work, but some readers here may not, so thank you very, very much for the link, Kirill.

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