TODAY'S POST BRINGS TO AN END THE SERIES
Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add colour to my sunset sky. - Rabindranath Tagore
Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air
In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.
Blest, who can unconcernedly find
Hours, days and years slide soft away
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,
Sound sleep at night; study and ease
Together mixed; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.
- Alexander Pope
He was thrilled to hear that a famous Zen Master, having heard of the beautiful garden, was coming to see it. On the day before the visit the monk worked tirelessly to make sure that everything was immaculate.
Accompanied by his students, the Master walked round the garden, smiling approval at everything he saw. Finally he walked over to the tree in the centre of the garden, seized hold of it by the trunk and shook it violently. Leaves showered down all over the ground. He turned to the monk and said, “You have a real garden now.”
Everyone suddenly burst out singing:
And I was filled with such delight
As prisoned birds must find in freedom,
Winging wildly across the white
Orchards and dark-green fields: on - on - and out of sight.
Everyone's voice was suddenly lifted;
And beauty came like the setting sun;
My heart was shaken with tears: and horror
Drifted away . . . O, but everyone
Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done.
- Siegfried Sassoon