 |
| Jane Meyler |
The Lilies
Hunting them, a man must sweat,
bear
the whine of a mosquito in his
ear,
grow thirsty, tired, despair
perhaps
of ever finding them, walk a
long way.
He must give himself over to
chance,
for they live beyond prediction.
He must give himself over to
patience,
for they live beyond will. He
must be led
along the hill as by a prayer.
If he finds them anywhere, he
will find
a few, paired on their stalks,
at ease in the air as souls in
bliss.
I found them here at first
without hunting,
by grace, as all beauties are
first found.
I have hunted and not found them
here.
Found, unfound, they breathe
their light
into the mind, year after year.
Wendell Berry
Berry, Wendell. "The Lilies.". Collected Poems 1957 - 1982. New York: North Point Press, 1964. p. 205.
