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What have I done, dear God, to deserve this perpetual feeling that I'm almost ready to begin something really new?

Theodore Roethke

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Theodore Roethke
Age: 55 †
Born: 1908
Born: May 25
Died: 1963
Died: August 1
Poet
Teacher
Writer
Saginaw
Michigan
Done
Perpetual
Something
Dear
Really
Deserve
Begin
Ready
Almost
Feeling
Feelings

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I came to love, I came into my own.
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By daily dying, I have come to be.
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All lovers live by longing, and endure: Summon a vision and declare it pure.
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So much of adolescence is an ill-defined dying, An intolerable waiting, A longing for another place and time, Another condition.
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Live in a perpetual great astonishment.
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When I go mad, I call my friends by phone: I am afraid they might think they're alone.
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Love is not love until love's vulnerable.
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How body from spirit slowly does unwind, until we are pure spirit at the end.
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We think by feeling. What is there to know?
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Time marks us while we are marking time.
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Reason? That dreary shed, that hutch for grubby schoolboys.
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And I walked, I walked through the light air I moved with the morning.
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Long live the weeds that overwhelm My narrow vegetable realm! The bitter rock, the barren soil That force the son of man to toil All things unholy, marred by curse, The ugly of the universe.
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Who rise from flesh to spirit know the fall: The word outleaps the world, and light is all.
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The fields stretch out in long unbroken rows. We walk aware of what is far and close. Here distance is familiar as a friend. The feud we kept with space comes to an end.
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Death was not. I lived in a simple drowse:Hands and hair moved through a dream of wakening blossoms.Rain sweetened the cave and the dove still calledThe flowers leaned on themselves, the flowers in hollowsAnd love, love sang toward.
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I wish I could find an event that meant as much as simple seeing.
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But when I breath with the birds, The spirit of wrath becomes the spirit of blessings, And the dead begin from their dark to sing in my sleep.
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What is madness but nobility of soul at odds with circumstance?
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In this place of light: he dares to live Who stops being a bird, yet beats his wings Against the immense immeasurable emptiness of things.
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