The Moths

by Mary OliverThere's a sort of white moth, I don't have any idea

what kind, that glints

by mid-May

in the backwoods, just

as the pink sandal blossoms

are rising.

Assuming you notice anything,

it drives you to take note

more

and that's just the beginning.

Also, in any case

I was so ready to go.

I was continuously going near, looking

at various stuff.

Assuming that I halted

the aggravation

was horrendous.

Assuming I halted and thought, perhaps

the world

can't be saved,

the aggravation

was insufferable.

At last, I saw enough.

Surrounding me in the timberland

the white moths drifted.

How long do they live, shuddering

all through the shadows?

You're not a lot, I said

one day to my appearance

in a green lake,

also, smiled.

The wings of the moths get the daylight

also, consume

so brilliantly.

Around evening time, in some cases,

they slip between the pink curves

of the shoe blossoms and lie there until day break,

still

in those dull lobbies of honey.

The Singing by Patrick Phillips | Wednesday, September 20, 2017 | The Essayist's Chronicle with Post Keillor

I can hear her through

the slim wall, singing,

up before the sun:

two notes, a sort

of quieted half-relaxing,

each time the child

makes that little groan — can hear her difficult

not to sing, then, at that point, singing

at any rate, a thing so old

it should

be Hittite or Minoan,and so delicate nobody

could at any point figure

that I personally once

sang that very song:back when my child

and afterward his sibling

used to cry throughout the evening

or on the other hand a portion of the morning,

however nothing altogether

the world was wrong.And now how abnormal:

to be the man from nearby,

tuning in, as the child cries

then, at that point, calms, cries and calms

each time she sings

their mystery song,that would sound a similar ten

a long time back,

also, has no

meaning yet to calm.Media (http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/writersalmanac/~4/0RFLrVJzGzQ)

“As imperceptibly as Grief”

by Emily DickinsonAs imperceptibly as Grief

The Summer lapsed away—

Too imperceptible at last,

To seem like Perfidy—

A Quietness distilled

As Twilight long begun

Or Nature spending with herself

Sequestered Afternoon—

The Dusk drew earlier in—

The Morning foreign shone—

A courteous, yet harrowing Grace,

As Guest, that would be gone—

And thus, without a Wing

Or service of a Keel

Our Summer made her light escape

Into the Beautiful.

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