My morning started off pretty rough, being awakened by the cries of a fawn and so finding its tiny sister or brother dead by our creek. Then, as I wandered back to the house, I discovered that, despite hours of work putting up ugly chicken wire cages, some animal keeps coming in the night; last night it had reached right through the wire holes and dug up every one of my summer annuals in the back yard, leaving them destroyed (but, as always, not even nibbled).
Of course, I do not forget for one moment that there are far worse things happening — unspeakable, heart-shattering things — throughout the world at this very moment.
Yet, despite everything, I am reminded, in the most intimate way, how poetry restores me, and how it can be a healing balm for sorrows large and small.
by Robert Frost
Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.
Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.
And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.
For this is love and nothing else is love,
To which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends he will,
But which it only needs that we fulfill.