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)