May Sarton

I thought of happiness, how it is woven Out of the silence in the empty house each day And how it is not sudden and it is not given But is creation itself like the growth of a tree. No one has seen it happen, but inside the bark Another circle is growing in the expanding ring. No one has heard the root go deeper in the dark, But the tree is lifted by this inward work And its plumes shine, and its leaves are glittering. So happiness is woven out of the peace of hours And strikes its roots deep in the house alone: The old chest in the corner, cool waxed floors, White curtains softly and continually blown As the free air moves quietly about the room; A shelf of books, a table, and the white-washed wall— These are the dear familiar gods of home, And here the work of faith can best be done, The growing tree is green and musical. For what is happiness but growth in peace, The timeless sense of time when furniture Has stood a life's span in a single place, And as the air moves, so the old dreams stir The shining leaves of present happiness? No one has heard thought or listened to a mind, But where people have lived in inwardness The air is charged with blessing and does bless; Windows look out on mountains and the walls are kind.

As the tide rises, the closed mollusc Opens a fraction to the ocean's food, Bathed in its riches. Do not ask What force would do, or if force could. A knife is of no use against a fortress. You might break it to pieces as gulls do. No, only the rising tide and its slow progress Opens the shell. Lovers, I tell you true. You who have held yourselves closed hard Against warm sun and wind, shelled up in fears And hostile to a touch or tender word— The ocean rises, salt as unshed tears. Now you are floated on this gentle flood That cannot force or be forced, welcome food Salt as your tears, the rich ocean's blood, Eat, rest, be nourished on the tide of love.

Absorbed in planting bulbs, that work of hope, I was startled by a loud human voice, “Do go on working while I talk. Don’t stop!” And I was caught upon the difficult choice— To yield the last half hour of precious light, Or to stay on my knees, absurd and rude; I willed her to be gone with all my might, This kindly neighbor who destroyed a mood; I could not think of next spring any more, I had to re-assess the way I live. Long after I went in and closed the door, I pondered on the crude imperative. What it is to be caught up in each day Like a child fighting imaginary wars, Converting work into this passionate play, A rounded whole made up of different chores Which one might name haphazard meditation. And yet an unexpected call destroys Or puts to rout my primitive elation: Why be so serious about mere joys? Is this where some outmoded madness lies, Poet as recluse? No, what comes to me Is how my father looked out of his eyes, And how he fought for his own passionate play. He could tear up unread and throw away Communications from officialdom, And, courteous in every other way, Would not brook anything that kept him from Those lively dialogues with man’s whole past That were his intimate and fruitful pleasure. Impetuous, impatient to the last, “Be adamant, keep clear, strike for your treasure!” I hear the youthful ardor in his voice (And so I must forgive a self in labor). I feel his unrepentant smiling choice, (And so I ask forgiveness of my neighbor).