BY JANE KENYON
Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving   
up the bales as the sun moves down.

Let the cricket take up chafing   
as a woman takes up her needles   
and her yarn. Let evening come.

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned   
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.   
Let the wind die down. Let the shed   
go black inside. Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop   
in the oats, to air in the lung   
let evening come.
​
Let it come, as it will, and don’t   ​

James Russell Lowell - 1819-1891​



And what is so rare as a day in June?      
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,      
And over it softly her warm ear lays:
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,      
An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above it for light,      
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen     
Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadows green,      
The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean      
To be some happy creature's palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,      
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o'errun      
With the deluge of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,--
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?
​
Now is the high-tide of the year,      
And whatever of life hath ebbed away
Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,      
Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;
Now the heart is so full that a drop over-fills it,
We are happy now because God wills it;
No matter how barren the past may have been,
'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;
We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing
That skies are clear and grass is growing;
The breeze comes whispering in our ear,
That dandelions are blossoming near,      
That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,
That the river is bluer than the sky, That the robin is plastering his house hard by;
And if the breeze kept the good news back,
For other couriers we should not lack;     
 We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,--
And hark! how clear bold chanticleer,
Warmed with the new wine of the year,      
​Tells all in his lusty crowing!

“Above all, trust in the slow work of God.
We are quite naturally impatient in everything
to reach the end without delay.
We should like to skip the intermediate stages.
We are impatient of being on the way to something
unknown, something new.
And yet it is the law of all progress
that it is made by passing through
some stages of instability –
and that it may take a very long time.
And so I think it is with you;
your ideas mature gradually—let them grow,
let them shape themselves, without undue haste.
Don’t try to force them on,
as though you could be today what time
(that is to say, grace and circumstances
acting on your own good will)
will make of you tomorrow.
Only God could say what this new spirit
gradually forming within you will be.
Give Our Lord the benefit of believing
that his hand is leading you,
and accept the anxiety of feeling yourself
in suspense and incomplete.”
Patient Trust
Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, SJ
excerpted from Hearts on Fire

​

Somewhere
a black bear
has just risen from sleep
and is staring

down the mountain.
All night
in the brisk and shallow restlessness
of early spring

I think of her,
her four black fists
flicking the gravel,
her tongue
​
like a red fire
touching the grass,
the cold water.
There is only one question:

how to love this world.
I think of her
rising
like a black and leafy ledge

to sharpen her claws against
the silence
of the trees.
​Whatever else

my life is
with its poems
and its music
and its glass cities,

it is also this dazzling darkness
coming
down the mountain,
breathing and tasting;
​
all day I think of her -—
her white teeth,
her wordlessness,
her perfect love.

​May you be for us a moon of joy and happiness.
Let the young become strong
and the grown man maintain his strength,
the pregnant woman be delivered
and the woman who has given birth suckle her child.
Let the stranger come to the end of his journey
and those who remain at home dwell safely in their houses.
Let the flocks that go to feed in the pastures return happily.
May you be a moon of harvest and of calves.
May you be a moon of restoration and of good health.
 
Ethiopian Prayer

 
I stand on the edge of myself and wonder where is home?
Oh, where is the place where beauty will last?
When will I be safe?  And where?
 
My tourist heart is wearing me out.
I am so tired of seeking for treasures that tarnish.
How much longer, Lord?
Oh, which way is home?
M luggage is heavy.  It is weighing me down.
I am hungry for the holy ground of home.
 
Then suddenly, overpowering me with the truth,
A voice within me gentles me, and says:
 
There is a power in you, a truth in you
That has not yet been tapped.
You are blinded with a blindness that is deep
For you’ve not loved the pilgrim in you yet.
 
There is a road that runs straight through your heart.
Walk on it.
 
To be a pilgrim means to be on the move, slowly,
To notice your luggage becoming lighter
To be seeking for treasures that do not rust
To be comfortable with your heart’s questions
To be moving toward the holy ground of home
With empty hands and bare feet.
 
And yet, you cannot reach that home
Until you’ve loved the pilgrim in you.
One must be comfortable with pilgrimhood
Before one’s feet can touch the homeland.
 
Do you want to go home?
There’s a road that runs straight through your heart.
Walk on it.
                                                                        Macrina Wiederkehr