“When I was just as far as I could walk From here today, There was an hour All still When leaning with my head against a flower I heard you talk. Don’t say I didn’t, for I heard you say— You spoke from that flower on the window sill— Do you remember what it was… Continue reading Robert Frost
June dawns, July noons, August evenings over, finished, done, and gone forever with only the sense of it all left here in his head. Now, a whole autumn, a white winter, a cool and greening spring to figure sums and totals of summer past. And if he should forget, the dandelion wine stood in the… Continue reading Ray Bradbury
Press close, bare-bosomed Night! Press close, magnetic, nourishing Night! Night of south winds! Night of the large, few stars! Still, nodding Night! Mad, naked, Summer Night! ― Walt Whitman, from “Song of Myself,” Leaves of Grass. Originally published: July 4, 1855.
It’s so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone. — John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent. (Penguin Classics; Reissue edition August 26, 2008) Originally published 1961.
Today The ordinary miracles begin. Somewhere a signal arrives: “Now,” and the rays come down. A tomorrow has come. Open your hands, lift them: morning rings all the doorbells; porches are cells for prayer. Religion has touched your throat. Not the same now, you could close your eyes and go on full of light. And… Continue reading William Stafford
In March the soft rains continued, and each storm waited courteously until its predecessor sunk beneath the ground. ― John Steinbeck, East of Eden. (Penguin Books February 5, 2002) Originally published 1952.
I believe in the flesh and the appetites, Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle. Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touch’d from, The scent of these arm-pits aroma finer than prayer, This head more than churches, bibles,… Continue reading Walt Whitman