• English,  Poems

    VII

    Again I resume the long lesson: how small a thing can be pleasing, how little in this hard world it takes to satisfy the mind and bring it to its rest. With the ongoing havoc the woods this morning is almost unnaturally still. Through stalled air, unshadowed light, a few leaves fall of their own weight.The sky is gray. It begins in mist almost at the ground and rises forever. The trees rise in silence almost natural, but not quite, almost eternal, but not quite.What more did I think I wanted? Here is what has always been. Here is what will always be. Even in me, the Maker of all this returns in rest, even to the slightest of His works, a yellow leaf slowly falling, and is pleased. by Wendell Berry

  • English,  Poems

    The Peace of Wild Things

    When despair for the world grows in me and I wake in the night at the least sound in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be, I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief. I come into the presence of still water. And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light. For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free. By Wendell Berry

  • English,  Poems

    Solitude

    Laugh, and the world laughs with you;     Weep, and you weep alone; For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,     But has trouble enough of its own. Sing, and the hills will answer;     Sigh, it is lost on the air; The echoes bound to a joyful sound,     But shrink from voicing care. Rejoice, and men will seek you;     Grieve, and they turn and go; They want full measure of all your pleasure,     But they do not need your woe. Be glad, and your friends are many;     Be sad, and you lose them all,— There are none to decline your nectared wine,     But alone you must drink life’s gall. Feast, and your halls are crowded;     Fast, and the world goes by. Succeed and give, and it helps you live,     But no man can help you die. There is room in the halls of pleasure     For a large and lordly train, But one by one we must all file on     Through the narrow aisles of pain. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox