Like the waterof a deep stream, love is always too much. We did not make it. Though we drink till we burst, we cannot have it all, or want it all. In its abundanceit survives our thirst. In the evening we come down to the shoreto drink our fill, and sleep, while it flowsthrough the regions of the dark. It does not hold us, except we keep returning to its rich watersthirsty. We enter, willing to die, into the commonwealth of its joy.
Wendell BerryAbout author
- Author's profession: Poet
- Nationality: american
- Born: August 5, 1934
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The song is gone; the danceis secret with the dancers in the earth, the ritual useless, and the tribal storylost in an alien tale. Only the grass stands upto mark the dancing-ring; the apple-gumsposture and mime a past corroboree, murmur a broken chant. The hunter is gone; the spearis splintered underground; the painted bodiesa dream the world breathed sleeping and forgot. The nomad feet are still. Only the rider's hearthalts at a sightless shadow, an unsaid wordthat fastens in the blood of...
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