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
The realist always falls in love with a girl he has grown up with, the romanticist with a girl from ‘off somewhere. — Robert Frost, The Letters of Robert Frost, Volume 1: 1886 – 1920. (Belknap Press: An Imprint of Harvard University Press; annotated edition edition February 27, 2014)
It will illustrate one phase of humanity anyhow; how few of life’s days and hours (and they not by relative value or proportion, but by chance) are ever noted. Probably another point too, how we give long preparations for some object, planning and delving and fashioning, and then, when the actual hour for doing arrives,… Continue reading Walt Whitman