“Are birds afraid to fall, As they hop from limb to limb? When the water’s rise to tall Are the fish afraid to swim? Do the trees refuse to bend Or the beast, refuse to eat In the rush of winters wind Or when summers grass is sweet? Do the minutes refuse to blend With
It was passed from one bird to another, the whole gift of the day. The day went from flute to flute, went dressed in vegetation, in flights which opened a tunnel through the wind would pass to where birds were breaking open the dense blue air – and there, night came in. When I returned
You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on.
Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune—without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm. I’ve heard it in the chillest land, And on
Then it picks up one stem leg. This takes time. And sets it down just beyond the other, no splash, breath of a ripple, goes on slowly across the silt, mud, algae- throttled surface, through sedge grass, to stand to its knees in water turning grayer now that afternoon is evening. Now that afternoon is
