Let the beauty we love do what we do.
Earth tries to work sorcery on us, saying Tomorrow, Tomorrow, but we outwit that spell by enjoying this now.
A pen went scribbling along. When it tried to write love, it broke.
This is not a day for asking questions, not a day on any calendar. This day is conscious of itself. This day is a lover, bread, and gentleness, more manifest than saying can say.
These pains you feel are messengers. Listen to them.
Every prophet and every saint has a way, But all lead to God. All ways are really one.