Poem: Western Wind

Western wind when wilt thou blow
the small rain down can rain
Christ if my love were in my arms
and I in my bed again.

    Anonymous, early 16th Century

 

 

 

 

 

What's the point?

If there is no point in the universe that we discover by the methods of science,
there is a point that we can give the universe by the way we live,
by loving each other, by discovering things about nature, by creating works of art.
And that—in a way, although we are not the stars in a cosmic drama,
if the only drama we're starring in is one that we are making up as we go along,
it is not entirely ignoble that faced with this unloving, impersonal universe
we make a little island of warmth and love and science and art for ourselves.
That's not an entirely despicable role for us to play.  

     Steve Weinberg, Nobel Laureate in Physics, The Faith of Scientists: In Their Own Words 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Our song

The sun shines not on us but in us.
The rivers flow not past, but through us,
thrilling, tingling, vibrating every fiber and cell of the substance of our bodies,
making them glide and sing.
The trees wave and the flowers bloom in our bodies as well as our souls,
and every bird song, wind song, and tremendous storm song of the rocks
in the heart of the mountains is our song, our very own, and sings our love.

         John of the Mountains: The Unpublished Journals of John Muir