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Primitive religion is not believed, it is danced!

Arthur Darby Nock

Earth's crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God;
And only he who sees takes off his shoes;
The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.

Elizabeth Browning



Tuesday, May 6, 2014

A gray morning

“When I can no more stir my soul to move, and life is but the ashes of a fire; when I can but remember that my heart once used to live and love, long and aspire- O, be thou then the first, the one thou art; be thou the calling, before all answering love, and in me wake hope, fear, boundless desire.”
― George MacDonald, The Diary of an Old soul
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another day
another morning

the clouds hang low
and the brilliance of creation is
strangely muted

some mornings are like that

and sometimes
the inner world of heart and soul too
is gray and ashen

the fire of love has died
and hope merely smolders deep
within the depths

and one resents the day
wishing merely for it to be
over
so one can once again sink into the kind oblivion of sleep

on such days
one prays for the sun
for the brilliance of the spirit to shine
deep within
to chase away the gray
and wake the inner world
stir the old soul

so that the sullen embers
once more
blaze

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