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Posts Tagged ‘Amy Lowell’

windy willows

September, 1918

This afternoon was the colour of water falling through sunlight;
The trees glittered with the tumbling of leaves;
The sidewalks shone like alleys of dropped maple leaves,
And the houses ran along them laughing out of square, open windows.
Under a tree in the park,
Two little boys, lying flat on their faces,
Were carefully gathering red berries
To put in a pasteboard box.
Some day there will be no war,

Then I shall take out this afternoon
And turn it in my fingers,
And remark the sweet taste of it upon my palate,
And note the crisp variety of its flights of leaves.
To-day I can only gather it
And put it into my lunch-box,
For I have time for nothing
But the endeavour to balance myself
Upon a broken world.
—Amy Lowell
blooming trees charles st south

In light of this week’s events in Boston (which are still unfolding this morning), it strikes me that in the midst of our broken world, the gathering and savoring of such days is just as important as the ongoing endeavor to balance ourselves amid the brokenness.

My friend Kari has also posted a poem that speaks eloquently to this week: Adam Zagajewski’s “Try to Praise the Mutilated World.”

Wishing you a peaceful weekend, friends. Be well.

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