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On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover, A fisherman mends a glimmering net.

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
Glimmering
Clover
Clovers
Fisherman
Bees
Circles
Ends
World
Mends

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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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A weak human mercy walks in the corridors of hospitals and is like a half-thawed winter.
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A man should not love the moon. An ax should not lose weight in his hand. His garden should smell of rotting apples, And grow a fair amount of nettles.
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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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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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The living owe it to those who no longer can speak to tell their story for them.
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Men will clutch at illusions when they have nothing else to hold to.
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Poetry is a dividend from what you know and what you are.
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I liked beaches, swimming pools, and clinics for there they were the bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh. I pitied them and myself, but this will not protect me. The word and the thought are over.
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For a country without a past is nothing, a word That, hardly spoken, loses its meaning, A perishable wall destroyed by flame, An echo of animal emotions.
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Do not feel safe. The poet remembers. You can kill one, but another is born. The words are written down, the deed, the date.
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Every poet depends upon generations who wrote in his native tongue he inherits styles and forms elaborated by those who lived before him. At the same time, though, he feels that those old means of expression are not adequate to his own experience.
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We have become indifferent to content, and react, not even to form, but to technique, to technical efficiency itself.
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The partition separating life from death is so tenuous. The unbelievable fragility of our organism suggests a vision on a screen: a kind of mist condenses itself into a human shape, lasts a moment and scatters.
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Be young forever, seasons of the earth.
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The true enemy of man is generalization.
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When I curse Fate, it's not me, but the earth in me.
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It is sweet to think I was a companion in an expedition that never ends
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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.
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The revolt against one's environment is usually 'shame' of one's environment.
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