I had a dove and the sweet dove died; / And I have thought it died of grieving: / O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied, / With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving; / Sweet little red feet! why should you die-- / Why should you leave me, sweet bird! why? / You liv'd alone in the forest-tree, / Why, pretty thing! would you not live with me? / I kiss'd you oft and gave you white peas; / Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?
How do you get so empty? Who takes it out of you?
But he that dares not grasp the thorn
Should never crave the rose.
"The Sea Hold," Carl Sandburg
There is something in us, as storytellers and as listeners to stories, that demands the redemptive act, that demands that what falls at least be offered the chance to be restored. The reader of today looks for this motion, and rightly so, but what he has forgotten is the cost of it. His sense of evil is diluted or lacking altogether, and so he has forgotten the price of restoration. When he reads a novel, he wants either his sense tormented or his spirits raised. He wants to be transported, instantly, either to mock damnation or a mock innocence.
~ Flannery O’Connor; Mystery and Manners: Occasional Prose
"There’s a book of revelations in everyone’s life."
Nature can put up quite a thrilling show. The stage is vast, the lighting is dramatic, the extras are innumerable, and the budget for special effects is absolutely unlimited.
It isn’t possible to love and part. You will wish that it was. You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you. I know by experience that the poets are right: love is eternal.