_{(i’ll check later to see how close i got :)}

Richard Wilbur’s: Praise in Summer

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Obscurely, yet most surely called to praise

As summer calls us all, i said

The hills are heavens full of branching ways

where star-nosed moles fly overhead the dead.

I said, the trees are mines in the air, i said

See how the swallow burrows through the sky!

And then i wondered why this mad Instead

Perverts our praise to uncreation, why

Such savors in this wrenching things awry.

Does sense so stale that it must need derange

the world to know it? Be it not enough of fresh and strange

that trees grow green, and moles can course in clay

and swallows sweep the ceiling of our day ? 5 years ago