“…June is past, the fading rose;”
— Thomas Carew, from “A Song”
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The Cure of Troy
Seamus Heaney
—
Human beings suffer.
They torture one another.
They get hurt and get hard.
No poem or play or song
Can fully right a wrong
Inflicted and endured.
History says, Don’t hope
On the side of the grave,’
But then, once in a lifetime
The longed for tidal wave
Of justice can rise up
And hope and history rhyme.
So hope for a great sea- change
On the far side of revenge.
Believe that a further shore
Is reachable from here.
Believe in miracles.
And cures and healing wells.
Call miracle self-healing,
The utter self revealing
Double-take of feeling.
If there’s fire on the mountain
And lightning and storm
And a god speaks from the sky
That means someone is hearing
The outcry and the birth-cry
Of new life at its term.
It means once in a lifetime
That justice can rise up
And hope and history rhyme.
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Eternal truths are ultimately invisible, and you won't find them in material things or natural phenomena, or even human emotions. Mathematics, however, can illuminate them, can give them expression - in fact, nothing can prevent it from doing so.
Yōko Ogawa / The Housekeeper and the Professor
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“Holy places are dark places. It is life and strength, not knowledge and words, that we get in them. Holy wisdom is not clear and thin like water, but thick and dark like blood.”
— C. S. Lewis, Till We Have Faces
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Robert Creeley, in For Love: Poems
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“Oh, what can frame my mind to bear The toil and turmoil, cark and care, New griefs, which coming hours unfold, And sad remembrance of the old? One hour with thee. One hour with thee! When burning June Waves his red flag at pitch of noon;”
— Sir Walter Scott , from “An Hour With Thee,” in The Random house Treasury of Favorite Love Poems
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Anne Sexton, from “Suicide Note” in The Complete Poems
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More examples of the WORST mansplaining here.
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“June 23rd, evening of the first fireflies,”
— Mark Doty, from “Deep Lane [June 23rd, evening of the first fireflies]’
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“Oh, what can frame my mind to bear The toil and turmoil, cark and care, New griefs, which coming hours unfold, And sad remembrance of the old? One hour with thee. One hour with thee! When burning June Waves his red flag at pitch of noon;”
— Sir Walter Scott , from “An Hour With Thee,” in The Random house Treasury of Favorite Love Poems
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estival
the abundance of darkness
in the longest zenith of the sun,
the world slouching towards
all the unbearable:
the loud silence
of every beloved spine,
the seething comfort
of every severe shadow;
who would not want to be half-hidden
from the blood-smeared summer,
mornings opening like mouth?
who stands awake in this
part-kiss, part-devouring?
come sing,
come sing:
run deeper into the solstice light;
darkness departs
early today, child.
— j. p. berame // no. 062118
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“Your voice, with clear location of June days, Called me outside the window. You were there, Light yet composed, as in the just soft stare Of uncontested summer all things raise Plainly their seeming into seamless air.”
— Richard Wilbur, from “June Light”
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Christian Wiman, My Bright Abyss
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“I’ve known rivers: I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins. […] I’ve known rivers: Ancient, dusky rivers. My soul has grown deep like the rivers.”
— Langston Hughes, from “The Negro Speaks of Rivers” The Selected Poems of Langston Hughes
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“At a terrace, somewhere near the stopper, There watched for me, one June, A girl:”
— Robert Browning, from “Confessions”
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I, too, sing America.
I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.
Tomorrow,
I’ll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody’ll dare
Say to me,
“Eat in the kitchen,”
Then.
Besides,
They’ll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed—
I, too, am America.
—
Langston Hughes, “I, Too” from The Collected Works of Langston Hughes
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“Moonless, this June night is all the more alive with stars. Its darkness is perfumed with faint gusts from the blossoming lime trees, with the smell of wetted earth and the invisible greenness of the vines. There is silence; but a silence that breathes with the soft breathing of the sea and, in the thin shrill noise of a cricket, insistently, incessantly harps on the fact of its own deep perfection. Far away, the passage of a train is like a long caress, moving gently, with an inexorable gentleness, across the warm living body of the night.”
— Aldous Huxley, from “Music at Night,” in Music at Night and Other Essays
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