I had not thought of being glad again.
I can endure the opening of each day,
Do small tasks in an ordinary way,
And bear the nights, each night as long as ten.
And I can read the words that people pen
In sympathy, see visitors, and say
The right words, even asking them to stay,
And smile a little, every now and then.
This seemed as much as I could ever do.
To see beyond the doing of these things
Required a vision that I never had.
But when I glimpsed a bird just now, there flew
Across my hearts, like fugitive wild wings,
The possibility of being glad.
–From In Green Pastures (written in 1949)
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My father plowed.
So we were fed.
But meager soil
Earns meager bread.
He plowed with zest,
He plowed with wonder,
But soon we saw
His youth plowed under.
With hope drought-stricken,
With heart unbowing,
He bent his back
And kept on plowing.
With stubborn love
And a gaunt with pride
My father plowed
Till the day he died.
–From Halfway Up the Sky (written in 1949)
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How long a single night can be
We learned with anguished care.
Eternity was every hour
The night you entered there.
And even when the throbbing gold
Of day thrilled down the lawn,
We gazed with unfamiliar eyes,
Having no use for dawn.
–written in November 1949, published first in ‘Window on Eternity’
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