Love The Wild Swan
"I hate my verses, every line, every word.
Oh pale and brittle pencils ever to
One grass-blade's curve, or the throat of one
That clings to twig, ruffled against white sky.
Oh cracked and twilight mirrors ever to
One color, one
Hash, of the splendor of things.
Unlucky hunter,
Oh bullets of wax,
The lion beauty, the wild-swan wings, the storm of the wings."—This wild swan of a world is no hunter's game.
Better bullets than yours would miss the white
Better mirrors than yours would crack in the flame.
Does it matter whether you hate your . . . self?
At least Love your eyes that can see, your mind that
Hear the music, the thunder of the wings.
Love the wild swan.
Robinson Jeffers
Other author posts
Summer Holiday
When the sun shouts and people One thinks there were the ages of stone and the age of And the iron age; iron the unstable metal; Steel made of iron, unstable as his mother; the tow- ered-up
The Epic Stars
The heroic stars spending themselves, Coining their very flesh into bullets for the lost battle, They must burn out at length like used candles; And Mother Night will weep in her triumph, taking home her heroes
The Broken Balance
I Reference to a Passage in Plutarch's Life of The people buying and selling, consuming pleasures, talking in the archways, Were all suddenly struck
Tor House
If you should look for this place after a handful of lifetimes: Perhaps of my planted forest a May stand yet, dark-leaved Australians or the coast cypress, With storm-drift; but fire and the axe are devils