On a Hot, Beautiful Day.

The Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean–
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down–
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

Happy Tuesday, friends. 


Moneypenny said...


Elles ont les épaules hautes
Et l’air malin
Ou bien des mines qui déroutent
La confiance est dans la poitrine
À la hauteur où l’aube de leurs seins se lève
Pour dévêtir la nuit

Des yeux à casser les cailloux
Des sourires à y penser
Pour chaque rêve
Des rafales de cris de neige
Des lacs de nudité
Et des ombres déracinées.

Il faut les croire sur baiser
Et sur parole et sur regard
Et ne baiser que leurs baisers.

Je ne montre que ton visage
Les grands orages de ta gorge
Tout ce que je connais et tout ce que j’ignore
Mon amour ton amour ton amour ton amour.

Paul Eluard ( 1895-1952)

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