The sky will be much friendlier then than now,
A part of labor and a part of pain,
And next in glory to enduring love,
Not this dividing and indifferent blue….
We live in an old chaos of the sun,
Or old dependency of day and night,
Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,
Of that wide water, inescapable,
Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail
Whistle about us their spontaneous cries;
Alas, these are wild turkeys, not quails. LOL
Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;
And, in the isolation of the sky,
At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
Downward to darkness, on extended wings.
Poetry from “Sunday Morning,” by Wallace Stevens (1879-1955).
Photos by Eowyn
Please follow and like us: