I know that I shall meet my fate Somewhere among the clouds above; Those that I fight I do not hate, Those that I guard I do not love; My country is Kiltartan Cross, My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor, No likely end could bring them loss Or leave them happier than before. Nor law, nor duty bade me fight, Nor public men, nor cheering crowds, A lonely impulse of delight Drove to this tumult in the clouds; I balanced all, brought all to mind, The years to come seemed waste of breath, A waste of breath the years behind In balance with this life, this death.
Last week I happened to be sitting at the computer when my friend Rosemary sent me a beautiful photo of the copper-colored moon. It was a picture her son had just then taken in Idaho, with the aid of a telescope, of the partial eclipse. I had not known about the eclipse until that moment, so I headed out the front door to see what I could see. I think there was a little cloud cover — or maybe it was just the distance making the image a bit foggy. In any case I could definitely see that the moon was leaving the umbra. That was fun!
This poem is about more common lunar events, and their effect on the ocean. It is one that has been waiting in my drafts folder for some time; after my viewing of that “relationship drama” in the sky, it seems a good time to publish it. I want to make some further comment, because the poem moves me so deeply. But — it seems that’s all I can tell you. It is a whole and complete thing, in every way.
A SONNET OF THE MOON
Look how the pale Queen of the silent night Doth cause the Ocean to attend upon her, And he, as long as she is in his sight, With his full tide is ready her to honor.
But when the silver waggon of the Moon Is mounted up so high he cannot follow, The sea calls home his crystal waves to moan, And with low ebb doth manifest his sorrow.
So you that are the sovereign of my heart Have all my joys attending on your will, My joys low-ebbing when you do depart, When you return their tide my heart doth fill.
So as you come, and as you do depart, Joys ebb and flow within my tender heart.
For Orthodox Christians, today is the first day of the liturgical year, and also the Feast of Creation. The perfect day to think on this:
“Who is it that forms the flowers so wisely, so delicately, arranges so splendidly, and gives form to the disordered, i.e., the shapeless, formless substances of the earth? Who gives it such wonderful form? O Creator, grant us the opportunity through flowers to embrace Thy wisdom, Thy benevolence, and Thine almighty power.”
Wendell Berry has completed the giving away of himself. Memory eternal.
No, no there is no going back. Less and less you are that possibility you were. More and more you have become those lives and deaths that have belonged to you. You have become a sort of grave containing much that was and is no more in time, beloved then, now, and always. And so you become a sort of tree standing over a grave. Now more than ever you can be generous toward each day that comes, young, to disappear forever, and yet remain unaging in the mind. Every day you have less reason not to give yourself away.
– Wendell Berry, August 5, 1934 – August 31, 2026
From A Timbered Choir: The Sabbath Poems 1979-1997
For Orthodox Christians, today is the first day of the liturgical year, and also the Feast of Creation. The perfect day to think on this:
Gladsome Lights 