Something different, set apart, special this single room in the house, a sanctuary, a refuge a place where the spirit, palpable, real, living where t

  Love is not condescension, never that, nor books, nor any pencil trace on paper, no; nor in how we talk about each other. Love is a tree with br

It's the mystery of the hunt that intrigues me, That drives us like lemmings, but cautiously— The search for a bright square cloud—the scent of

  We can never be with loss too long. Behind the warped door that sticks, the wood thrush calls to the monks, pausing upon the stone crucifix, singi

  I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; A tree

  From the tawny light from the rainy nights from the imagination finding itself and more than itself alone and more than alone at the bottom of the

    Joy, my love, joy in all things, in what falls and what flourishes. Joy in today and yesterday, the day before and tomorrow. Joy in brea

    Love whispered to me make yourself my fool: leave the hunt become the prey live with me be homeless don’t cast shadows become the sun. &nbs

    It is an afternoon toward the end of August: Autumnal weather, cool following on, And riding in, after the heat of summer, Into the em

  If my spirit descended now, it would be a lost gull flaring against a deepening hillside, or an angel who cries too easily, or a single glas

  Little patches of grass disappear In the jaws of lusty squirrels Who slip into the spruce. Cars collapse into parts. Spring dissolves into summe

  I believe the earth exists, and in each minim mote of its dust the holy glow of thy candle. Thou unknown I know, thou spirit, giver, lover o

subtle degrees of domination and servitude are what you know as love   but love is different it arrives complete just there like the moo

  If my spirit descended now, it would be a lost gull flaring against a deepening hillside, or an angel who cries too easily, or a single glas

    If humans could be that intensely whole, undistracted, unhurried, swift from sheer unswerving impetus! If we could blossom out of ourselves, g

    I was welcomed here--clear gold of late summer, of opening autumn, the dawn eagle sunning himself on the highest tree, the mountain revealin

    Life is the only way to get covered in leaves, catch your breath on the beach, rise on wings; to be a dog, or stroke its warm fur; to te

  A poem should be palpable and mute As a globed fruit Dumb As old medallions to the thumb Silent as the sleeve-worn stone Of casement ledges wher

1. Will the hungry ox stand in the field and not eat of the sweet grass? Will the owl bite off its own wings? Will the lark forget to lift its body i

  the sun remarked, the other day, 'really, I am just a shadow. yes, really. I wish I could show you the infinite incandescence that made me.'