We shake with joy, we shake with grief. What a time they have, these two housed as they are in the same body.
Look, I want to love this world as though it's the last chance I'm ever going to get to be alive and know it.
He is exactly the poem I wanted to write.
To find a new word that is accurate and different, you have to be alert for it.
Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do With your one wild and precious life?
I know many lives worth living.
My work is the world. Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird - equal seekers of sweetness. Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums...
I believe in kindness. Also in mischief. Also in singing, especially when singing is not necessarily prescribed.
I tell you this to break your heart, by which I mean only that it break open and never close again to the rest of the world.
A fact: one picks it up and reads it, and puts it down, and there is an end to it. But an idea! That one may pick up, and reflect upon, and oppose, and expand, and so pass a delightful afternoon altogether.
I think one thing is that prayer has become more useful, interesting, fruitful, and... almost involuntary in my life.
I wanted to hurry into the work of my life; I wanted to know, whoever I was, I was alive for a little while.
You may not agree, you may not care, but if you are holding this book you should know that of all the sights I love in this world â€” and there are plenty â€” very near the top of the list is this one: dogs without leashes.
Maybe the world, without us, is the real poem.
The most regretful people on earth are those who felt the call to creative work, who felt their own creative power restive and uprising, and gave to it neither power nor time.
Why I Wake Early Hello, sun in my face. Hello, you who made the morning and spread it over the fields and into the faces of the tulips and the nodding morning glories, and into the windows of, even, the miserable and the crotchety â€“ best preacher that ever was, dear star, that just happens to be w
All night my heart makes its way however it can over the rough ground of uncertainties, but only until night meets and then is overwhelmed by morning, the light deepening, the wind easing and just waiting, as I too wait (and when have I ever been disappointed?) for redbird to sing
The language of the poem is the language of particulars.
And that is just the point... how the world, moist and beautiful, calls to each of us to make a new and serious response. That's the big question, the one the world throws at you every morning. "Here you are, alive. Would you like to make a comment?
Of course! The path to heaven doesn't lie down in flat miles. It's in the imagination with which you perceive this world, and the gestures with which you honor it.
This is the first, wildest, and wisest thing I know, that the soul exists, and that it is built entirely out of attention.
A mind that is lively and inquiring, compassionate, curious, angry, full of music, full of feeling, is a mind full of possible poetry.
Sunrise What is the name of the deep breath I would take over and over for all of us? Call it whatever you want, it is happiness, it is another one of the ways to enter fire.
...there was a new voice which you slowly recognized as your own, that kept you company as you strode deeper and deeper into the world, determined to do the only thing you could do -- determined to save the only life you could save.
There is nothing better than work. Work is also play; children know that. Children play earnestly as if it were work. But people grow up, and they work with a sorrow upon them. It's duty.
At Blackwater Pond the tossed waters have settled after a night of rain. I dip my cupped hands. I drink a long time. It tastes like stone, leaves, fire. It falls cold into my body, waking the bones. I hear them deep inside me, whispering oh what is that beautiful thing that just happened?
We all have a hungry heart, and one of the things we hunger for is happiness. So as much as I possibly could, I stayed where I was happy. I spent a great deal of time in my younger years just writing and reading, walking around the woods in Ohio, where I grew up.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination...
Attention is the beginning of devotion.
In your hands The dog, the donkey, surely they know They are alive. Who would argue otherwise? But now, after years of consideration, I am getting beyond that. What about the sunflowers? What about The tulips, and the pines? Listen, all you have to do is start and Thereâ€™ll be no stopping. What abo