"As a fond mother, when the day is o’er,
Leads by the hand her little child to bed,
Half willing, half reluctant to be led,
And leave his broken playthings on the floor,
Still gazing at them through the open door,
Nor wholly reassured and comforted
By promises of others in their stead,
Which, though more splendid, may not please him more;
So Nature deals with us, and takes away
Our playthings one by one, and by the hand
Leads us to rest so gently, that we go
Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,
Being too full of sleep to understand
How far the unknown transcends the what we know."
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
"To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers."
Edna St Vincent Millay, Second April
I won’t come
I won’t go
I won’t live
I won’t die
I’ll keep uttering
And lose myself
And I’m platter
And I’m woman
And I’m sweet lime
And I’m Muslim
And I’m net
And I’m time
I’m not among the living
Or the dead
Kabir, mystic poet of 15th century India
Hear the voice of the Bard,
Who present, past, and future, sees;
Whose ears have heard
The Holy Word
That walked among the ancient trees;
Calling the lapsed soul,
And weeping in the evening dew;
That might control
The starry pole,
And fallen, fallen light renew!
Sorrow like a ceaseless rain
Beats upon my heart.
People twist and scream in pain,—
Dawn will find them still again;
This has neither wax nor wane;
Neither stop nor start.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
"Nothing divine dies. All good is eternally reproductive. The beauty of nature reforms itself in the mind, and not for barren contemplation, but for new creation."
Nature, Ralph Waldo Emerson