{"product_id":"how-lovely-the-ruins-isbn-9780399592836","title":"How Lovely the Ruins","description":"\u003cb\u003eThis wide-ranging collection of inspirational poetry and prose offers readers solace, perspective, and the courage to persevere.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn times of personal hardship or collective anxiety, words have the power to provide comfort, meaning, and hope. The past year has seen a resurgence of poetry and inspiring quotes—posted on social media, appearing on bestseller lists, shared from friend to friend. Honoring this communal spirit, \u003ci\u003eHow Lovely the Ruins\u003c\/i\u003e is a timeless collection of both classic and contemporary poetry and short prose that can be of help in difficult times—selections that offer wisdom and purpose, and that allow us to step out of our current moment to gain a new perspective on the world around us as well as the world within.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The poets and writers featured in this book represent the diversity of our country as well as voices beyond our borders, including Maya Angelou, W. H. Auden, Danez Smith, Rumi, Emily Dickinson, Naomi Shihab Nye, Alice Walker, Adam Zagajewski, Langston Hughes, Wendell Berry, Anna Akhmatova, Yehuda Amichai, and Robert Frost. And the book opens with a stunning foreword by Elizabeth Alexander, whose poem “Praise Song for the Day,” delivered at the inauguration of President Barack Obama, ushered in an era of optimism. In works celebrating our capacity for compassion, our patriotism, our right to protest, and our ability to persevere,\u003ci\u003e How Lovely the Ruins\u003c\/i\u003e is a beacon that illuminates our shared humanity, allowing us connection in a fractured world.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eIncludes poetry, prose, and quotations from:\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Elizabeth Alexander • Marcus Aurelius • Karen Armstrong • Matthew Arnold • Ellen Bass • Brian Bilston • Gwendolyn Brooks • Elizabeth Barrett Browning • Octavia E. Butler • Regie Cabico • Dinos Christianopoulos • Lucille Clifton • Ta-Nehisi Coates • Leonard Cohen • Wendy Cope • E. E. Cummings • Charles Dickens • Mark Doty • Thomas Edison • Albert Einstein • Ralph Ellison • Kenneth Fearing • Annie Finch • Rebecca Foust • Nikki Giovanni • Stephanie Gray • John Green • Hazel Hall • Thich Nhat Hanh • Joy Harjo • Václav Havel • Terrance Hayes • William Ernest Henley • Juan Felipe Herrera • Jane Hirshfield • John Holmes • A. E. Housman • Bohumil Hrabal • Robinson Jeffers • Georgia Douglas Johnson • James Weldon Johnson • Paul Kalanithi • Robert F. Kennedy • Omar Khayyam • Emma Lazarus • Li-Young Lee • Denise Levertov • Ada Limón • Henry Wadsworth Longfellow • Nelson Mandela • Masahide • Khaled Mattawa • Jamaal May • Claude McKay • Edna St. Vincent Millay • Pablo Neruda • Anaïs Nin • Olga Orozco • Ovid • Pier Paolo Pasolini • Edgar Allan Poe • Claudia Rankine • Adrienne Rich • Rainer Maria Rilke • Alberto Ríos • Edwin Arlington Robinson • Eleanor Roosevelt • Christina Rossetti • Muriel Rukeyser • Sadhguru • Carl Sandburg • Vikram Seth • Charles Simic • Safiya Sinclair • Effie Waller Smith • Maggie Smith • Tracy K. Smith • Leonora Speyer • Gloria Steinem • Clark Strand • Wisława Szymborska • Rabindranath Tagore • Sara Teasdale • Alfred, Lord Tennyson • Vincent van Gogh • Ocean Vuong • Florence Brooks Whitehouse • Walt Whitman • Ella Wheeler Wilcox • William Carlos Williams • Virginia Woolf • W. B. Yeats • Saadi Youssef • Javier Zamora • Howard ZinnSPIEGEL \u0026amp; GRAU, founded in 2005, is an imprint of the Random House Publishing Group specializing in books that help us make sense of our lives. Books we have published include \u003ci\u003eBetween the World and Me\u003c\/i\u003e by Ta-Nehisi Coates, \u003ci\u003eThe Other Wes Moore \u003c\/i\u003eby Wes Moore, \u003ci\u003eNothing to Envy\u003c\/i\u003e by Barbara Demick, \u003ci\u003eMy Promised Land\u003c\/i\u003e by Ari Shavit, \u003ci\u003eOrange Is the New Black\u003c\/i\u003e by Piper Kerman, and\u003ci\u003e Just Mercy \u003c\/i\u003eby Bryan Stevenson.I\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehow lovely the ruins\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTry to Praise the Mutilated World\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAdam Zagajewski\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003etranslated by clare cavanagh\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTry to praise the mutilated world.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRemember June’s long days,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe nettles that methodically overgrow\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe abandoned homesteads of exiles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou must praise the mutilated world.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou watched the stylish yachts and ships;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eone of them had a long trip ahead of it,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhile salty oblivion awaited others.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou’ve seen the refugees going nowhere,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyou’ve heard the executioners sing joyfully.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou should praise the mutilated world.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRemember the moments when we were together\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein a white room and the curtain fluttered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eReturn in thought to the concert where music flared.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou gathered acorns in the park in autumn\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand leaves eddied over the earth’s scars.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise the mutilated world\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand the gray feather a thrush lost,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand the gentle light that strays and vanishes\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand returns.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere Are Birds Here\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJamaal May\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor Detroit\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere are birds here,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eso many birds here\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eis what I was trying to say\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhen they said those birds were metaphors\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efor what is trapped\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebetween buildings\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand buildings. No.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe birds are here\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto root around for bread\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe girl’s hands tear\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand toss like confetti. No,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI don’t mean the bread is torn like cotton,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI said confetti, and no\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003enot the confetti\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea tank can make of a building.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI mean the confetti\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea boy can’t stop smiling about\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand no his smile isn’t much\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elike a skeleton at all. And no\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehis neighborhood is not like a war zone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI am trying to say\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehis neighborhood\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eis as tattered and feathered\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eas anything else,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eas shadow pierced by sun\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand light parted\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eby shadow-­dance as anything else,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebut they won’t stop saying\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehow lovely the ruins,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehow ruined the lovely\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003echildren must be in that birdless city.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOmar Khayyam\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“When you are so full of sorrow\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat you can’t walk, can’t cry anymore,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethink about the green foliage that sparkles after\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe rain. When the daylight exhausts you, when\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyou hope a final night will cover the world,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethink about the awakening of a young child.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePoem\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMuriel Rukeyser\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI lived in the first century of world wars.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMost mornings I would be more or less insane,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe newspapers would arrive with their careless stories,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe news would pour out of various devices\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInterrupted by attempts to sell products to the unseen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI would call my friends on other devices;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey would be more or less mad for similar reasons.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSlowly I would get to pen and paper,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMake my poems for others unseen and unborn.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the day I would be reminded of those men and women,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBrave, setting up signals across vast distances,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eConsidering a nameless way of living, of almost unimagined values.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs the lights darkened, as the lights of night brightened,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe would try to imagine them, try to find each other,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo construct peace, to make love, to reconcile\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWaking with sleeping, ourselves with each other,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOurselves with ourselves. We would try by any means\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo reach the limits of ourselves, to reach beyond ourselves,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo let go the means, to wake.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI lived in the first century of these wars.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s not that the stars\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eare indifferent: their troubles\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehave already passed\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—­Clark Strand\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFire and Ice\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRobert Frost\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSome say the world will end in fire,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSome say in ice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom what I’ve tasted of desire\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI hold with those who favor fire.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut if it had to perish twice,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI think I know enough of hate\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo know that for destruction ice\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIs also great\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd would suffice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Place Where We Are Right\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYehuda Amichai\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003etranslated by chana bloch and stephen mitchell\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom the place where we are right\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFlowers will never grow\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the spring.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe place where we are right\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIs hard and trampled\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLike a yard.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut doubts and loves\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDig up the world\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLike a mole, a plow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd a whisper will be heard in the place\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhere the ruined\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHouse once stood.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll You Who Sleep Tonight\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eVikram Seth\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll you who sleep tonight\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFar from the ones you love,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo hand to left or right,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd emptiness above—­\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKnow that you aren’t alone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe whole world shares your tears,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSome for two nights or one,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd some for all their years.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Guest House\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRumi\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003etranslated by coleman barks\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis being human is a guest house.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEvery morning a new arrival.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA joy, a depression, a meanness,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esome momentary awareness comes\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs an unexpected visitor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWelcome and entertain them all!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEven if they’re a crowd of sorrows,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewho violently sweep your house\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eempty of its furniture,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003estill treat each guest honorably.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe may be clearing you out\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efor some new delight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe dark thought, the shame, the malice,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emeet them at the door laughing,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand invite them in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBe grateful for whoever comes,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebecause each has been sent\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eas a guide from beyond.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efrom “The Sentence”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnna Akhmatova\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003etranslated by judith hemschemeyer\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eToday I have so much to do:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI must kill memory once and for all,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI must turn my soul to stone,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI must learn to live again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA Green Crab’s Shell\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMark Doty\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot, exactly, green:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecloser to bronze\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epreserved in kind brine,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esomething retrieved\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efrom a Greco-­Roman wreck,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epatinated and oddly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emuscular. We cannot\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eknow what his fantastic\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elegs were like—­\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethough evidence\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esuggests eight\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecomplexly folded\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003escuttling works\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof armament, crowned\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eby the foreclaws’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003egesture of menace\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand power. A gull’s\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003egobbled the center,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eleaving this chamber\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—­size of a demitasse—­\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eopen to reveal\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea shocking, Giotto blue.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThough it smells\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof seaweed and ruin,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethis little traveling case\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecomes with such lavish lining!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eImagine breathing\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esurrounded by\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe brilliant rinse\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof summer’s firmament.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat color is\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe underside of skin?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot so bad, to die,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eif we could be opened\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003einto this—­\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eif the smallest chambers\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof ourselves,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esimilarly,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003erevealed some sky.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDover Beach\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMatthew Arnold\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe sea is calm tonight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe tide is full, the moon lies fair\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUpon the straits; on the French coast the light\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGlimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCome to the window, sweet is the night-­air!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnly, from the long line of spray\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhere the sea meets the moon-­blanched land,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eListen! you hear the grating roar\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt their return, up the high strand,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBegin, and cease, and then again begin,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith tremulous cadence slow, and bring\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe eternal note of sadness in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSophocles long ago\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHeard it on the Ægean, and it brought\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInto his mind the turbid ebb and flow\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf human misery; we\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFind also in the sound a thought,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHearing it by this distant northern sea.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Sea of Faith\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWas once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut now I only hear\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIts melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRetreating, to the breath\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf the night-­wind, down the vast edges drear\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd naked shingles of the world.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAh, love, let us be true\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo one another! for the world, which seems\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo lie before us like a land of dreams,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo various, so beautiful, so new,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd we are here as on a darkling plain\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSwept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhere ignorant armies clash by night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOut Beyond Ideas\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRumi\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTranslated by coleman barks\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOut beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethere is a field. I’ll meet you there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen the soul lies down in that grass,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe world is too full to talk about.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIdeas, language, even the phrase each other\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edoesn’t make any sense.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBarn’s burnt down—­\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003enow\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI can see the moon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—­Masahide\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat Kind of Times Are These\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAdrienne Rich\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere’s a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003enear a meeting-­house abandoned by the persecuted\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewho disappeared into those shadows.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’ve walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don’t be fooled\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethis isn’t a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eour country moving closer to its own truth and dread,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eits own ways of making people disappear.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI won’t tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emeeting the unmarked strip of light—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eghost-­ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd I won’t tell you where it is, so why do I tell you\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eanything? Because you still listen, because in times like these\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto have you listen at all, it’s necessary\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto talk about trees.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMusée des Beaux Arts\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eW. H. Auden\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAbout suffering they were never wrong,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe old Masters: how well they understood\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIts human position: how it takes place\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhile someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHow, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor the miraculous birth, there always must be\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChildren who did not specially want it to happen, skating\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn a pond at the edge of the wood:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey never forgot\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnyhow in a corner, some untidy spot\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhere the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer’s horse\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eScratches its innocent behind on a tree.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn Breughel’s Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eQuite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHave heard the splash, the forsaken cry,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWater, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomething amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHad somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen you consider things like the stars, our affairs don’t seem to matter very much, do they?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—­Virginia Woolf\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSci-­Fi\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTracy K. Smith\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere will be no edges, but curves.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eClean lines pointing only forward.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHistory, with its hard spine \u0026amp; dog-­eared\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCorners, will be replaced with nuance,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJust like the dinosaurs gave way\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo mounds and mounds of ice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWomen will still be women, but\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe distinction will be empty. Sex,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHaving outlived every threat, will gratify\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnly the mind, which is where it will exist.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor kicks, we’ll dance for ourselves\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBefore mirrors studded with golden bulbs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe oldest among us will recognize that glow—­\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut the word sun will have been re-­assigned\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo the Standard Uranium-­Neutralizing device\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFound in households and nursing homes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd yes, we’ll live to be much older, thanks\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo popular consensus. Weightless, unhinged,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEons from even our own moon, we’ll drift\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the haze of space, which will be, once\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd for all, scrutable and safe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eII\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eagainst tyranny\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne’s philosophy is not best expressed in words; it is expressed in the choices one makes. In stopping to think through the meaning of what I have learned, there is much that I believe intensely, much I am unsure of. In the long run, we shape our lives and we shape ourselves. The process never ends until we die. And, the choices we make are ultimately our own responsibility.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—­Eleanor Roosevelt\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efrom “Nineteen Hundred and Nineteen”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eW. B. Yeats\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe too had many pretty toys when young:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA law indifferent to blame or praise,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo bribe or threat; habits that made old wrong\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMelt down, as it were wax in the sun’s rays;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePublic opinion ripening for so long\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe thought it would outlive all future days.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eO what fine thought we had because we thought\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat the worst rogues and rascals had died out. . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI Hear America Singing\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWalt Whitman\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThose of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand strong,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ework,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edeckhand singing on the steamboat deck,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eas he stands,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emorning, or at noon intermission or at sundown,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ework, or of the girl sewing or washing,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEach singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efellows, robust, friendly,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSinging with open mouths their strong melodious songs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDifferences of Opinion\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWendy Cope\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe Tells Her\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe tells her that the earth is flat—­\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe knows the facts, and that is that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn altercations fierce and long\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe tries her best to prove him wrong.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut he has learned to argue well.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe calls her arguments unsound\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd often asks her not to yell.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe cannot win. He stands his ground.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe planet goes on being round.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTerence, this is stupid stuff\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA. E. Housman\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Terence, this is stupid stuff:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou eat your victuals fast enough;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere can’t be much amiss, ’tis clear,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo see the rate you drink your beer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut oh, good Lord, the verse you make,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt gives a chap the belly-­ache.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe cow, the old cow, she is dead;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt sleeps well, the horned head:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe poor lads, ’tis our turn now\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo hear such tunes as killed the cow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePretty friendship ’tis to rhyme\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYour friends to death before their time\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMoping melancholy mad:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCome, pipe a tune to dance to, lad.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhy, if ’tis dancing you would be,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere’s brisker pipes than poetry.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSay, for what were hop-­yards meant,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOr why was Burton built on Trent?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOh many a peer of England brews\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLivelier liquor than the Muse,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd malt does more than Milton can\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo justify God’s ways to man.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAle, man, ale’s the stuff to drink\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor fellows whom it hurts to think:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLook into the pewter pot\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo see the world as the world’s not.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd faith, ’tis pleasant till ’tis past:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe mischief is that ’twill not last.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOh I have been to Ludlow fair\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd left my necktie God knows where,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd carried half way home, or near,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePints and quarts of Ludlow beer:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen the world seemed none so bad,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd I myself a sterling lad;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd down in lovely muck I’ve lain,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHappy till I woke again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen I saw the morning sky:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHeigho, the tale was all a lie;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe world, it was the old world yet,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI was I, my things were wet,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd nothing now remained to doForeword by Elizabeth Alexander","brand":"Random House","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302318133477,"sku":"NP9780399592836","price":24.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/how-lovely-the-ruins-isbn-9780399592836","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}