In this place of light: he dares to live Who stops being a bird, yet beats his wings Against the immense immeasurable emptiness of things.
Should we say the self, once perceived, becomes the soul?
By daily dying, I have come to be.
A lively understandable spirit Once entertained you. It will come again. Be still. Wait.
I am overwhelmed by the beautiful disorder of poetry, the eternal virginity of words.
Art is our defense against hysteria and death.
All lovers live by longing, and endure: Summon a vision and declare it pure.
Any fool can take a bad line out of a poem; it takes a real pro to throw out a good line.
And I rejoiced in being what I was.
The damage of teaching: the constant contact with the undeveloped.
The body and the soul know how to play In that dark world where gods have lost their way.
Reason? That dreary shed, that hutch for grubby schoolboys.
Wake the happy words.
I have gone into the waste lonely places
My truths are all foreknown,This anguish self-revealed.I'm naked to the bone,With nakedness my shield.
The self says, I am; The heart says, I am less; The spirit says, you are Nothing.
Pain wanders through my bones like a lost fire
You must believe: a poem is a holy thing - a good poem, that is. The poem, even a short time after being written, seems no miracle; unwritten, it seems something beyond the capacity of the gods.
I lose and find myself in the long water. I am gathered together once more.
I wish I could find an event that meant as much as simple seeing.
I learned not to fear infinity, The far field, the windy cliffs of forever, The dying of time in the white light of tomorrow, The wheel turning away from itself, The sprawl of the wave, The on-coming water.
I came where the river Ran over stones; My ears knew An early joy. And all the waters Of all the streams Sang in my veins That summer day.
All finite things reveal infinitude: The mountain with its singular bright shade Like the blue shine on freshly frozen snow, The after-light upon ice-burdened pines; Odor of basswood upon a mountain slope, A scene beloved of bees; Silence of water above a sunken tree: The pure serene of memory of one man,- A ripple widening from a single stone Winding around the waters of the world.
I came to love, I came into my own.
Civilization is over-rated, but there isn't much else.
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