Цитаты из книги Thirst: Poems

For a long time I was not even In this world, yet Every summer Every rose Opened in perfect sweetness And lived In gracious repose, In its own exotic fragrance, In its huge willingness to give Something, from its small self, To the entirely of the world. I think of them, thousands upon thousands, In many lands, Whenever summer came to them, Rising Out of the patience of patience, To leaf and bud and look up Into the blue sky Or, with thanks, Into the rain That would feed Their thirsty roots Latched into the earth- Sandy or hard, Vermont or Arabia, What did it matter, The answer was simply to rise In joyfulness, all their days. Have I found any better teaching? Not ever, not yet. Last week I say my first Botticelli And almost fainted, And if I could I would paint like that But am shelved somewhere below, with a few songs About roses: teachers, also, of the ways Toward thanks, and praise.

When I am among the trees, especially the willows and the honey locust, equally the beech, the oaks and the pines, they give off such hints of gladness, I would almost say that they save me, and daily. I am so distant from the hope of myself, in which I have goodness, and discernment, and never hurry through the world but walk slowly, and bow often. Around me the trees stir in their leaves and call out, "Stay awhile." The light flows from their branches. And they call again, "It's simple," they say, "and you too have come into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled with light, and to shine."

Ribbon Snake in the Sun

I came upon him and he is Startled; he glides To the rock’s rim; he wheels, setting in motion The stripes of his body, yet not going Anywhere. And, though the books say It can’t e done, since his eyes are set Too far apart in the narrow skull, I’m not Lying when I say that he lifts his face and looks Into my eyes and I look back until We are both staring hard At each other. He wants to know Just where in this bright, blue-faced world He might be safe. He wants to go on with the Flow of his life. Then he straightens His shining back and drops From the rocks and rockets through The tangle of weeds, sliding, as he goes, over My bare foot. Then it vanishes Into the shade and the grass, down to Some slubby stream, having Startled me in return. But there is a Small matter. What I would speak of, rather, Is the weightless string of his actually soft and Nervous body; the nameless stars of its eyes.

Walking Home from Oak-Head

There is something about the snow-laden sky in winter in the late afternoon

that brings to the heart elation and the lovely meaninglessness of time. Whenever I get home - whenever -

somebody loves me there. Meanwhile I stand in the same dark peace as any pine tree,

or wander on slowly like the still unhurried wind, waiting, as for a gift,

for the snow to begin which it does at first casually, then, irrepressibly.

Wherever else I live - in music, in words, in the fires of the heart, I abide just as deeply

in this nameless, indivisible place, this world, which is falling apart now, which is white and wild,

which is faithful beyond all our expressions of faith, our deepest prayers. Don't worry, sooner or later I'll be home. Red-cheeked from the roused wind,

I'll stand in the doorway stamping my boots and slapping my hands, my shoulders covered with stars.

The Messenger

My work is loving the world.

Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird — equal seekers of sweetness.

Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.

Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?

Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect?

Let me keep my mind on what matters, which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished.

The phoebe, the delphinium. The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.

Which is mostly rejoicing, since all ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart

and these body-clothes, a mouth with which to give shouts of joy to the moth

and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam, telling them all,

over and over, how it is that we live forever.