Sunday, October 23, 2011

The sure comfort of poetry

The Peace of Wild Things by Wendell Berry




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.

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