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Jane Kenyon Poems
There's just no accounting for happiness, or the way it turns up like a prodigal who comes back to the dust at your feet having squandered a fortune far away.
Having it Out with Melancholy
1FROM THE NURSERY When I was born, you waited
Let Evening Come
Let the light of late afternoon shine through chinks in the barn, moving up the bales as the sun moves down.
I got out of bed on two strong legs. It might have been otherwise. I ate
We lie back to back. Curtains lift and fall, like the chest of someone sleeping. Wind moves the leaves of the box elder;
The Blue Bowl
Like primitives we buried the cat with his bowl. Bare-handed we scraped sand and gravel back into the hole.
Briefly It Enters, and Briefly Speaks
I am the blossom pressed in a book, found again after two hundred years. . . . I am the maker, the lover, and the keeper. . . .
Notes from the Other Side
I divested myself of despair and fear when I came here. Now there is no more catching
The dog has cleaned his bowl and his reward is a biscuit, which I put in his mouth like a priest offering the host.
February: Thinking of Flowers
Now wind torments the field, turning the white surface back on itself, back and back on itself, like an animal licking a wound.
Finding A Long Gray Hair
I scrub the long floorboards in the kitchen, repeating the motions of other women who have lived in this house.
Christ has been done to death in the cold reaches of northern Europe a thousand thousand times. Suddenly bread
All day the blanket snapped and swelled on the line, roused by a hot spring wind.... From there it witnessed the first sparrow, early flies lifting their sticky feet,
Twilight: After Haying
Yes, long shadows go out from the bales; and yes, the soul must part from the body: what else could it do?
Comments about Jane Kenyon
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
There's just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.
And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.
No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy...