And when thou art weary, I’ll find thee a bed of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head. ~ John Keats
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Posts tagged as:
Poetry
Nothing will sustain you more potently than the power to recognize in your humdrum routine, as perhaps it may be thought, the true poetry of life. ~ Sir William Osler (1849-1919), Canadian Physician
[Image: Sunset, Pismo Beach CA.]
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And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
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The earth is not a mere fragment of dead history, stratum upon stratum like the leaves of a book, to be studied by geologists and antiquaries chiefly, but living poetry like the leaves of a tree. ~ Henry David Thoreau
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All
The craziness,
All the empty plots,
all the ghosts and fears,
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An apprentice gardener ~ after having raked every leaf, weeded every bed, trimmed every expiring flower, and set every stone aright ~ went to his master for approval.
Sensei, he said, bowing low, It is ready.
His master slowly scanned the garden expanse, then walked quietly over to a reaching Japanese maple. With both hands he grasped the trunk and shook it gently. Yellow, red, and brown leaves cascaded onto the verdant carpet.
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How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
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For last year’s words belong to last year’s language
And next year’s words await another voice.
Little Gidding, T.S. Eliot
[Photo credit: Creative Commons, Mike Dziedzic]
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