Giving, I think the poet meant,without expecting anything.Not even a response.A line would be enough.Like an emergency measure.Throwing a message(you know: in a bottle).How quiet, sometimes, the sea.
What is time when love and memory are eternal?Pages on the kitchen's calendar;the flickering of dates on screens.It is all about "having the courage to continue",as I remember the poet & the thinker talk about,discuss distance as bodies in spirits, over the line.There is no final deadline for grief ,no interruption of the ongoing downloads of remembrance.You live on, every day, in hearts & minds, and it is true.A year on one does need to mark the moment,but it is not like the continuum is not still here,carrying on, as presence, as a way of being.What is time if not the constant current of becoming,constellations of a million instants taking turns to shine.
There is no thingas total stillnesssound is movementthen the windthere are cloudsbehind the sunshineI sit in a cornerand count the pebblesthe shade under a treethe leaves danceimperceptibly
Sweet Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly crave,Let me once know.I sought thee in a secret cave,And ask'd, if Peace were there,A hollow wind did seem to answer, No:Go seek elsewhere.I did; and going did a rainbow note:Surely, thought I,This is the lace of Peace's coat:I will search out the matter.But while I looked the clouds immediatelyDid break and scatter.Then went I to a garden and did spyA gallant flower,The crown-imperial: Sure, said I,
Nature -- the Gentlest Mother is,Impatient of no Child --The feeblest -- or the waywardest --Her Admonition mild --In Forest -- and the Hill --By Traveller -- be heard --Restraining Rampant Squirrel --Or too impetuous Bird --How fair Her Conversation --A Summer Afternoon --Her Household -- Her Assembly --And when the Sun go down --Her Voice among the AislesIncite the timid prayerOf the minutest Cricket --The most unworthy Flower --
If faithful souls be alike glorifiedAs angels, then my fathers soul doth see,And adds this even to full felicity,That valiantly I hells wide mouth o'erstride:But if our minds to these souls be descriedBy circumstances, and by signs that beApparent in us, not immediately,How shall my mind's white truth by them be tried?They see idolatrous lovers weep and mourn,And vile blasphemous conjurers to callOn Jesus name, and PharisaicalDissemblers feigne devotion. Then turn,O pensive soul, to God, for he knows bestThy true grief, for he put it in my breast.