What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, I have forgotten, and what arms have lain Under my head till morning; but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh Upon the glass and listen for reply, And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain For unremembered lads that not again Will turn to me at midnight with a cry. Thus in winter stands the lonely tree, Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, Yet knows its boughs more silent than before: I cannot say what loves have come and gone, I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more.
The Paradise Notebooks: A Poet and a Geologist’s Love Letter to Life Lensed
Through a Mountain
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"Each world bears all the worlds we might find within it. If you understand
one outcropping of stone, or one wildflower, or one hummingbird — if we see
our...
10 hours ago
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