Sometimes I think that a people more starved for beauty has never walked the earth. And it is a scandal that our Church does not help. We talk, for example, about “the planet,” but not about woods, hedgerows, small streams, sparrows, badgers, rocks, and moors. The poet Wordsworth could sense, in his memories of the rugged land where he had been a child, a presence

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,

And the round ocean and the living air,

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