Quotes About Harmony

There is only one question; how to love this world.

to leap into it and hold on, connecting everything

What good does it do to lie all day in the sun loving what's easy? It never grew easy, but at least I grew peaceful:

I'd seen their hoofprints in the deep needles and knew they ended the long night under the pines... I was thinking: so this is how you swim inward, so this is how you flow outward, so this is how you pray. (from poem, Five A.M. in the Pinewoods)

It's true, isn't it, in our world, that the petals pooled with nectar, and the polished thorns are a single thing- that the petals pooled with nectar, and the polished thorns are a single thing- that even the purest light, lacking the robe of darkness, would be without expression- that love itself, without pain, would be no more than a shrug gable comfort.

Oh, I would like to live in an empty house, with vines for walls, and a carpet of grass. No planks, no plastic, no fiberglass.

we are all one family but love ourselves best.

The snails on the pink sleds of their bodies are moving among the morning glories The spider is asleep among the red thumbs of the raspberries.

What would the world be like without music or rivers or the green and tender grass? What would this world be like without dogs?

Listen, whatever you see and love- that's where you are.

How does any of us live in this world? One thing compensates for another, I suppose. Sometimes what's wrong does not hurt at all, but rather shines like a new moon.

I believe everything has a soul.

Every night the owl with his wild monkey-face calls through the black branches, and the mice freeze and the rabbits shiver in the snowy fields— and then there is the long, deep trough of silence when he stops singing, and steps into the air.

Late, late, but now lovely and lovelier. And the two of us, together—a part of it.

This morning two mockingbirds in the green field were spinning and tossing the white ribbons of their songs into the air. I had nothing better to do than listen. I mean this seriously.

How sometimes everything closes up, a painted fan, landscapes and moments flowing together until the sense of distance— say, between Clapp's Pond and me— vanishes, edges slide together like the feathers of a wing, everything touches everything.

and also I am the leaves and the blossoms, and, like them, I am full of delight, and shaking.

And maybe there will be, after all, some slack and perfectly balanced blind and rough peace, finally, in the deep and green and utterly motionless pools after all that falling?

Every year the hatchlings wake in the swaying branches, in the silver baskets, and love the world. Is it necessary to say any more? Have you heard them singing in the wind, above the final fields? Have you ever been so happy in your life?

But this: it is heaven itself to take what is given,     to see what is plain; what the sun lights up willingly; for example—I think this     as I reach down, not to pick but merely to touch— the suitability of the field for the daisies, and the     daisies for the field.

Miles below in the cold woods, with the mouse and the owl, with the clearness of water sheeted and hidden, with the reason for the wind forever a secret, he descends and sits with me, his voice like the snapping of bones.

Wherever I am, the world comes after me. It offers me its busyness. It does not believe that I do not want it. Now I understand why the old poets of China went so far and high into the mountains, then crept into the pale mist.

of work and love, a

As music is present yet you can't touch it.