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The Peace Of The Wild Things When despair grows in me

The Peace Of The Wild Things When despair grows in me and I wake in the middle of the night at the least sound in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be, I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

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The Peace Of The Wild Things When despair grows in me

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  1. The Peace Of The Wild Things When despair grows in me and I wake in the middle of the night at the least sound in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be, I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief. I come into the presence of still water. And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting for their light. For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free

  2. What We Need Is Here Geese appear high over us,pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,as in love or sleep, holdsthem to their way, clearin the ancient faith: what we needis here. And we pray, notfor new earth or heaven, but to bequiet in heart, and in eye,clear. What we need is here.

  3. The Hidden Singer The gods are less for their love of praise. Above and below them all is a spirit that needs nothing but its own wholeness, its health and ours. It has made all things by dividing itself. It will be whole again. To its joy we come together – the seer and the seen, the eater and the eaten, the lover and the loved. In our joining it knows itself. It is with us then, not as the gods whose names crest in unearthly fire, but as a little bird hidden in the leaves who sings quietly and waits, and sings.

  4. The Silence Though the air is full of singing my head is loud with the labor of words. Though the season is rich with fruit, my tonguehungers for the sweet of speech.Though the beech is goldenI cannot stand beside itmute, but must say"It is golden," while the leavesstir and fall with a soundthat is not a name.It is in the silencethat my hope is, and my aim.A song whose linesI cannot make or singsounds men's silencelike a root. Let me sayand not mourn: the worldlives in the death of speechand sings there.

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