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When Death Comes ~ Mary Oliver
When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
like the hungry bear in autumn
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps his purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle pox;
when death comes
like the measle pox;
when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering;
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,
as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth
tending as all music does, toward silence,
tending as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.
precious to the earth.
When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was a bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was a bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened
or full of argument.
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened
or full of argument.
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.
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Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing. ( from Macbeth by William Shakespeare)
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Witness ~ Denise Levertov ~
Sometimes the mountain is hidden from me
in veils of cloud,
sometimes I am hidden from the mountain
in veils of inattention, apathy, fatigue,
when I forget or refuse to go down to the shore or a few yards
up the road, on a clear day, to reconfirm
that witnessing presence.
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