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A day so happy. Fog lifted early. I worked in the garden. Hummingbirds were stopping over honeysuckle flowers. There was no thing on earth I wanted to possess. I know no one worth my envying him.

Czeslaw Milosz

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Czeslaw Milosz
Age: 93 †
Born: 1911
Born: June 30
Died: 2004
Died: August 14
Diplomat
Essayist
Pedagogue
Poet
Translator
University Teacher
Writer
Clarksburg
West Virginia
Miłosz
Czelaw Milosz
Flower
Stopping
Early
Cheer
Honeysuckle
Worth
Possess
Envying
Happy
Appreciation
Joyfulness
Earth
Flowers
Thankfulness
Wanted
Gratitude
Fog
Thing
Garden
Cheerfulness
Worked
Lifted

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They used to pour millet on graves or poppy seeds To feed the dead who would come disguised as birds. I put this book here for you, who once lived So that you should visit us no more.
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It is sweet to think I was a companion in an expedition that never ends
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I am composed of contradictions, which is why poetry is a better form for me than philosophy
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I imagine the earth when I am no more: Women's dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley. Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born, Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.
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Grow your tree of falsehood from a small grain of truth. Do not follow those who lie in contempt of reality. Let your lie be even more logical than the truth itself, so the weary travelers may find repose.
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The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.
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Human reason is beautiful and invincible. No bars, no barbed wire, no pulping of books, No sentence of banishment can prevail against it. It puts what should be above things as they are. It does not know Jew from Greek nor slave from master.
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If I am all mankind, are they themselves without me?
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Consciousness even in my sleep changes primary colors. The features of my face melt like a wax doll in the fire. And who can consent to see in the mirror the mere face of man?
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In a room where people unanimously maintain a conspiracy of silence, one word of truth sounds like a pistol shot.
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All was taken away from you: white dresses, wings, even existence.
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When I curse Fate, it's not me, but the earth in me.
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Be young forever, seasons of the earth.
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On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover, A fisherman mends a glimmering net.
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It's true that what is morbid is highly valued today, and so you may think that I am only joking or that I've devised just one more means of praising Art with the help of irony.
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The purpose of poetry is to remind us / how difficult it is to remain just one person.
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Language is the only homeland.
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From life, from the apple cut by the flaming knife, what grain will be saved? My son, believe me, nothing remains, Only adult toil, the furrow of fate in the palm. Only toil, Nothing more.
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The revolt against one's environment is usually 'shame' of one's environment.
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All of us yearn for the highest wisdom, but we have to rely on ourselves in the end.
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