It is the same life that emerges in joy through the dust of the earth into numberless waves of flower.

We can make a little order where we are, and then the big sweep of history on which we can have no effect doesn't overwhelm us. We do it with colors, with a garden, with the furnishings of a room, or with sounds and words. We make a little form, and we gain composure.

The way a crow Shook down on me. The dust of snow From a hemlock tree Has given my heart A change of mood. And saved some part Of a day I had rued.

In the world's audience hall, the simple blade of grass sits on the same carpet with the sunbeams, and the stars of midnight.

My day is done, and I am like a boat drawn on the beach, listening to the dance-music of the tide in the evening.

Praise shames me, for I secretly beg for it.