The Voice of The Rain

- by. Walt Whitman

And who are thou? Said I to soft-falling

shower,

Which, strange to tell, gave me an answer, as here translated:

I am the poem of Earth, said the voice of the rain,

Eternal I rise impalpable out of the land and the bottomless sea,

Upward to heaven, whence, vaguely

from 'd, altogether changed, and yet the same, I descend to lave the droughts,

atomies, dust-layers of the globe,

And all that in them without me were

seeds only, latent, unborn;

And forever, by day and night, I give back life to my own origin,

And make pure and beautify it;

(For song, issuing from its birth-place, after

fulfilment, wandering

Rock' d or unreck 'd, duly with love returns.)

Comments

Never give up

Never give up in life, Man! Never give up in life. Life is the greatest gift No one here is misfit. We need to know our goal And nicely play our role. Why to fear with dark When there are millions stars. Why to sink in despair, when hope resides everywhere . what a path without a turn, what a flower without a thorn. What a joy without sadness. What a goal without weariness. Everything is for a reason, like we need every season. Face the hurdles with a smile. Never give up in this life.

My Mother at Sixty-six

Kamala Dad Driving from my parents's home to Cochin last Friday morning, I saw my mother, beside me, doze, open mouthed, her face ashen like that of a corpse and realised with pain that she thought away, and looked but soon put that thought away, and looked out at young trees sprinting, the merry children spilling out of their homes, but after the airport's security check, standing a few yards away, I looked again at her, was, pale as a late winter's moon and felt that old familiar ache, my childhood's fear, but all I said was, see you soon, Amma, all I did was smile and smile and smile......

Keeping Quiet

-Pablo Neruda Now we will count to twelve and we will all keep still. For once on the face of the Earth let's not speak in any language, let's stop for one second, and not move our arms so much. It would be an exotic moment Without rush, without engine, We would all be strangeness. Fisherman in the cold sea would not harm whales and the man gathering salt would look at his hurt hands. Those who prepare green wars, wars with gas, wars with fire, victory with no survivors, would put on clean clothes and walk about with their brothers in the shade, doing nothing. What I want should not be confused ...

M poem

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