{"id":"01KG8AKRV4AWA7R649YGMMXF32","cid":"bafkreihjhmh5t42d5hlqu7isv2c6o7lh7rfratpveho5v4egsw6j5f3nnm","type":"chunk","properties":{"end_line":329,"extracted_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:15.023Z","extracted_by":"structure-extraction-lambda","label":"Chunk 1","source_file":"01KG89J1F4D8P9BBX9AMGZ7TX7","start_line":265,"text":"it will cure this weariness, to look on her. No more; I’ll launch my\r\nyawl—ho, cheerly, heart! and push away for fairy-land—for rainbow’s\r\nend, in fairy-land.\r\n\r\nHow to get to fairy-land, by what road, I did not know; nor could any\r\none inform me; not even one Edmund Spenser, who had been there—so he\r\nwrote me—further than that to reach fairy-land, it must be voyaged to,\r\nand with faith. I took the fairy-mountain’s bearings, and the first\r\nfine day, when strength permitted, got into my yawl—high-pommeled,\r\nleather one—cast off the fast, and away I sailed, free voyager as an\r\nautumn leaf. Early dawn; and, sallying westward, I sowed the morning\r\nbefore me.\r\n\r\nSome miles brought me nigh the hills; but out of present sight of them.\r\nI was not lost; for road-side golden-rods, as guide-posts, pointed, I\r\ndoubted not, the way to the golden window. Following them, I came to a\r\nlone and languid region, where the grass-grown ways were traveled but\r\nby drowsy cattle, that, less waked than stirred by day, seemed to walk\r\nin sleep. Browse, they did not—the enchanted never eat. At least, so\r\nsays Don Quixote, that sagest sage that ever lived.\r\n\r\nOn I went, and gained at last the fairy mountain’s base, but saw yet no\r\nfairy ring. A pasture rose before me. Letting down five mouldering\r\nbars—so moistly green, they seemed fished up from some sunken wreck—a\r\nwigged old Aries, long-visaged, and with crumpled horn, came snuffing\r\nup; and then, retreating, decorously led on along a milky-way of\r\nwhite-weed, past dim-clustering Pleiades and Hyades, of small\r\nforget-me-nots; and would have led me further still his astral path,\r\nbut for golden flights of yellow-birds—pilots, surely, to the golden\r\nwindow, to one side flying before me, from bush to bush, towards deep\r\nwoods—which woods themselves were luring—and, somehow, lured, too, by\r\ntheir fence, banning a dark road, which, however dark, led up. I pushed\r\nthrough; when Aries, renouncing me now for some lost soul, wheeled, and\r\nwent his wiser way. Forbidding and forbidden ground—to him.\r\n\r\nA winter wood road, matted all along with winter-green. By the side of\r\npebbly waters—waters the cheerier for their solitude; beneath swaying\r\nfir-boughs, petted by no season, but still green in all, on I\r\njourneyed—my horse and I; on, by an old saw-mill, bound down and hushed\r\nwith vines, that his grating voice no more was heard; on, by a deep\r\nflume clove through snowy marble, vernal-tinted, where freshet eddies\r\nhad, on each side, spun out empty chapels in the living rock; on, where\r\nJacks-in-the-pulpit, like their Baptist namesake, preached but to the\r\nwilderness; on, where a huge, cross-grain block, fern-bedded, showed\r\nwhere, in forgotten times, man after man had tried to split it, but\r\nlost his wedges for his pains—which wedges yet rusted in their holes;\r\non, where, ages past, in step-like ledges of a cascade, skull-hollow\r\npots had been churned out by ceaseless whirling of a flintstone—ever\r\nwearing, but itself unworn; on, by wild rapids pouring into a secret\r\npool, but soothed by circling there awhile, issued forth serenely; on,\r\nto less broken ground, and by a little ring, where, truly, fairies must\r\nhave danced, or else some wheel-tire been heated—for all was bare;\r\nstill on, and up, and out into a hanging orchard, where maidenly looked\r\ndown upon me a crescent moon, from morning.\r\n\r\nMy horse hitched low his head. Red apples rolled before him; Eve’s\r\napples; seek-no-furthers. He tasted one, I another; it tasted of the\r\nground. Fairy land not yet, thought I, flinging my bridle to a humped\r\nold tree, that crooked out an arm to catch it. For the way now lay\r\nwhere path was none, and none might go but by himself, and only go by\r\ndaring. Through blackberry brakes that tried to pluck me back, though I\r\nbut strained towards fruitless growths of mountain-laurel; up slippery\r\nsteeps to barren heights, where stood none to welcome. Fairy land not\r\nyet, thought I, though the morning is here before me.\r\n\r","title":"Chunk 1"},"relationships":[{"peer":"01KG8AK3EKFW7571ZFEHKPRBKC","peer_type":"section","predicate":"in"},{"peer":"01KG89J1F4D8P9BBX9AMGZ7TX7","peer_type":"file","predicate":"extractedFrom"},{"peer":"01KG89HMDZKNY753EZE1CJ8HZW","peer_type":"collection","predicate":"collection"},{"peer":"01KG8AKRV71P4MXP488DTWGJGD","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"next"}],"ver":2,"created_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:15.204Z","ts":"2026-01-30T20:48:22.197Z","edited_by":{"method":"manual","user_id":"01KFF0H3YRP9ZSM033AM0QJ47H"}}