Quote

And one cold starry night / Whatever your belief / The phoenix will take flight / Over the seas of grief / To sing her thrilling song / To stars and waves and sky / For neither old nor young / The phoenix does not die.

May Sarton

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May Sarton
Age: 83 †
Born: 1912
Born: May 3
Died: 1995
Died: July 16
Diarist
Poet
Writer
May Eleanor Sarton
Night
Sea
Seas
Doe
Neither
Thrilling
Young
Cold
Waves
Take
Stars
Flight
Belief
Wave
Dies
Sky
Whatever
Sing
Starry
Song
Grief
Phoenix

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A body without bones would be a limp impossible mess, so a day without steady routine would be disruptive and chaotic.
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The more articulate one is, the more dangerous words become.
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The minute one utters a certainty, the opposite comes to mind.
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This suspension of one's own reality, this being entirely alone in a strange city (at times I wondered if I had lost the power of speech) is an enriching state for a writer. Then the written word ... takes on an intensity of its own. Nothing gets exteriorized or dissipated all is concentrated within.
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Go rich in poverty. Go rich in poetry. This nothingness is plentitude.
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O cruel cloudless space, And pale bare ground where the poor infant lies! Why do we feel restored As in a sacramental place? Here Mystery is artifice, And here a vision of such peace is stored, Healing flows from it through our eyes.
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There the door is always open into the “holy” — growth, birth, death.
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In the garden the door is always open into the holy - growth, birth, death. Every flower holds the whole mystery in its short cycle, and in the garden we are never far away from death, the fertilizing, good, creative death.
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It is sometimes the most fragile things that have the power to endure and become sources of strength.
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One does not find oneself by pursuing one's self, but on the contrary by pursuing something else and learning through discipline or routine. . . who one is and wants to be.
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What is destructive is impatience, haste, expecting too much too fast.
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Human relations just are not fixed in their orbits like the planets -- they're more like galaxies, changing all the time, exploding into light for years, then dying away.
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How much hope, expectation, and sheer hard work goes into the smallest success! There is no being sure of anything except that whatever has been created will change in time.
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In the novel or the journal you get the journey. In a poem you get the arrival.
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It is dangerous it seems to me for a civilization when there is a complete abyss betewen people in general and the artists. Or is it always so? The poets who are most ardently on the people's side write in such a way that the people cannot see rhyme nor reason to their work.
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Where joy in an old pencil is not absurd.
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I feel happy to be keeping a journal again. I've missed it, missed naming things as they appear, missed the half hour when I push all duties aside and savor the experience of being alive in this beautiful place.
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I can tell you that solitude Is not all exaltation, inner space Where the soul breathes and work can be done. Solitude exposes the nerve, Raises up ghosts. The past, never at rest, flows through it.
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True gardeners cannot bear a glove Between the sure touch and the tender root.
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Gardening gives one back a sense of proportion about everything - except itself.
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