I held my breath as we do sometimes to stop time when something wonderful has touched us.
Why should I not sit, every morning of my life, on the hillside, looking into the shining world?
Today I am altogether without ambition. Where did I get such wisdom?
What can we do about God, who makes and then breaks every god-forsaken, beautiful day?
He is exactly the poem I wanted to write.
Wherever I am, the world comes after me. It offers me its busyness. It does not believe that I do not want it. Now I understand why the old poets of China went so far and high into the mountains, then crept into the pale mist.