an American man of letters, academic, cultural and economic critic, and farmer. He is a prolific author of novels, short stories, poems, and essays. He is also an elected member of the Fellowship of Southern Writers and a recipient of The National Humanities Medal. more »
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Wendell Berry Poems
The Peace of Wild Things
When despair grows in me and I wake in the middle of the night at the least sound in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be, I go and lie down where the wood drake
What We Need Is Here
Geese appear high over us, pass, and the sky closes. Abandon, as in love or sleep, holds them to their way, clear
The Hidden Singer
The gods are less for their love of praise. Above and below them all is a spirit that needs nothing but its own wholeness, its health and ours. It has made all things by dividing itself.
The Country Of Marriage
I. I dream of you walking at night along the streams of the country of my birth, warm blooms and the nightsongs
A Meeting in A Part
In a dream I meet my dead friend. He has, I know, gone long and far, and yet he is the same
Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Fro...
Love the quick profit, the annual raise, vacation with pay. Want more of everything ready-made. Be afraid to know your neighbors and to die.
A Timbered Choir
Even while I dreamed I prayed that what I saw was only fear and no foretelling, for I saw the last known landscape destroyed for the sake of the objective, the soil bludgeoned, the rock blasted. Those who had wanted to go home would never get there now.
A Warning To My Readers
Do not think me gentle because I speak in praise of gentleness, or elegant because I honor the grace
The Mad Farmer Revolution
Being a Fragment of the Natural History of New Eden, in Homage To Mr. Ed McClanahan, One of the Locals
And now to the Abyss I pass Of that Unfathomable Grass... 1.
In A Motel Parking Lot, Thinking Of Dr. ...
I. The poem is important, but not more than the people
I was born in a drouth year. That summer my mother waited in the house, enclosed in the sun and the dry ceaseless wind,
Like The Water
Like the water of a deep stream, love is always too much.
(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)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
The Peace of Wild Things
When despair grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting for their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.