Beneath the vast skies the darkening colorful fields lie flat—wide hilly waves of rustling heather, bordering them stubble-fields and new-mown buckwheat, which with its stalk-red and the yellow of its leaves is like richest silk. And the way all this lies there, so close and strong and real that one can’t possibly ignore or forget it. Every moment something is held up into the vivifying air, a tree, a house, a slowly turning mill, a man with black shoulders, a large cow or a hard-edged, jagged goat that walks into the sky. There are no conversations in which the landscape doesn’t take part, from all sides and with a hundred voices.
Rainer Maria Rilke
Diaries of a Young Poet