“Last Night the Rain Spoke to Me"Last nightthe rainspoke to meslowly, saying,what joyto come fallingout of the brisk cloud,to be happy againin a new wayon the earth!That’s what it saidas it dropped,smelling of iron,and vanishedlike a dream of the oceaninto the branchesand the grass below.Then it was over.The sky cleared.I was standingunder a tree.The tree was a treewith happy leaves,and I was myself,and there were stars in the skythat were also themselvesat the moment,at which momentmy right handwas holding my left handwhich was holding the treewhich was filled with starsand the soft rain—imagine! imagine!the wild and wondrous journeysstill to be ours.”

“But I also say this: that light is an invitation to happiness, and that happiness, when it's done right, is a kind of holiness, palpable and redemptive. ”

“The poet dreams of the mountainSometimes I grow weary of the days, with all their fits and starts.I want to climb some old gray mountains, slowly, takingThe rest of my lifetime to do it, resting often, sleepingUnder the pines or, above them, on the unclothed rocks.I want to see how many stars are still in the skyThat we have smothered for years now, a century at least.I want to look back at everything, forgiving it all,And peaceful, knowing the last thing there is to know.All that urgency! Not what the earth is about!How silent the trees, their poetry being of themselves only.I want to take slow steps, and think appropriate thoughts.In ten thousand years, maybe, a piece of the mountain will fall.”

“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 doWith your one wild and precious life?”

“A dog comes to you and lives with you in your own house, but you do not therefore own her, as you do not own the rain, or the trees, or the laws which pertain to them”

“Mornings at BlackwaterFor years, every morning, I drankfrom Blackwater Pond.It was flavored with oak leaves and also, no doubt,the feet of ducks.And always it assuaged mefrom the dry bowl of the very far past.What I want to say isthat the past is the past,and the present is what your life is,and you are capableof choosing what that will be,darling citizen.So come to the pond,or the river of your imagination,or the harbor of your longing,and put your lips to the world.And liveyour life.”

“Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river?Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air -An armful of white blossoms,A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leanedinto the bondage of its wings; a snowbank, a bank of lilies,Biting the air with its black beak?Did you hear it, fluting and whistlingA shrill dark music - like the rain pelting the trees - like a waterfallKnifing down the black ledges?And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds -A white cross Streaming across the sky, its feetLike black leaves, its wings Like the stretching light of the river?And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?And have you changed your life?”