A Dream of Trees

By Mary Oliver

There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees,
A quiet house, some green and modest acres
A little way from every troubling town,
A little way from factories, schools, laments.
I would have time, I thought, and time to spare,
With only streams and birds for company,
To build out of my life a few wild stanzas.
And then it came to me, that so was death,
A little way away from everywhere.

There is a thing in me still dreams of trees.
But let it go. Homesick for moderation,
Half of the world's artists shrink or fall away.
If any find a solution, let him tell it.
Meanwhile I bend my heart toward lamentation
Where, as the times implore our true involvement,
The blades of crisis point the way.

I would it were not so, but so it is.
Who ever made music of a mild day?

We Grow Accustomed to the Dark

By Emily Dickinson

We grow accustomed to the Dark-
When Light is put away-
As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
To witness her Goodbye-

A Moment - We uncertain step
For newness of the night -
Then - fit our Vision to the Dark -
And meet the Road - erect-

And so of larger - Darknesses -
Those Evenings of the Brain -
When not a Moon disclose a sign -
Or Star - come out - within -

The Bravest - grope a little-
And sometimes hit a Tree
Directly in the forehead -
But as they learn to see -

Either the Darkness alters -
Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight -
And Life steps almost straight.

Readings of August 21, 2005