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Best Famous Carp Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Carp poems. This is a select list of the best famous Carp poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Carp poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of carp poems.

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Written by Victor Hugo | Create an image from this poem


 You can see it already: chalks and ochers; 
Country crossed with a thousand furrow-lines;
Ground-level rooftops hidden by the shrubbery; 
Sporadic haystacks standing on the grass;
Smoky old rooftops tarnishing the landscape; 
A river (not Cayster or Ganges, though:
A feeble Norman salt-infested watercourse); 
On the right, to the north, bizarre terrain
All angular--you'd think a shovel did it.
So that's the foreground.
An old chapel adds Its antique spire, and gathers alongside it A few gnarled elms with grumpy silhouettes; Seemingly tired of all the frisky breezes, They carp at every gust that stirs them up.
At one side of my house a big wheelbarrow Is rusting; and before me lies the vast Horizon, all its notches filled with ocean blue; Cocks and hens spread their gildings, and converse Beneath my window; and the rooftop attics, Now and then, toss me songs in dialect.
In my lane dwells a patriarchal rope-maker; The old man makes his wheel run loud, and goes Retrograde, hemp wreathed tightly round the midriff.
I like these waters where the wild gale scuds; All day the country tempts me to go strolling; The little village urchins, book in hand, Envy me, at the schoolmaster's (my lodging), As a big schoolboy sneaking a day off.
The air is pure, the sky smiles; there's a constant Soft noise of children spelling things aloud.
The waters flow; a linnet flies; and I say: "Thank you! Thank you, Almighty God!"--So, then, I live: Peacefully, hour by hour, with little fuss, I shed My days, and think of you, my lady fair! I hear the children chattering; and I see, at times, Sailing across the high seas in its pride, Over the gables of the tranquil village, Some winged ship which is traveling far away, Flying across the ocean, hounded by all the winds.
Lately it slept in port beside the quay.
Nothing has kept it from the jealous sea-surge: No tears of relatives, nor fears of wives, Nor reefs dimly reflected in the waters, Nor importunity of sinister birds.

Written by James A Emanuel | Create an image from this poem

Poet As Fisherman

 I fish for words
to say what I fish for,
half-catch sometimes.
I have caught little pan fish flashing sunlight (yellow perch, crappies, blue-gills), lighthearted reeled them in, filed them on stringers on the shore.
A nice mess, we called them, and ate with our fingers, laughing.
Once, dreaming of fish in far-off waters, I hooked a two-foot carp in Michigan, on nylon line so fine a fellow-fisher shook his head: "He'll break it, sure; he'll roll on it and get away.
" A quarter-hour it took to bring him in; back-and-forth toward my net, syllable by syllable I let him have his way till he lay flopping on the grass— beside no other, himself enough in size: he fed the three of us (each differently) new strategies of hook, leader, line, and rod.
Working well, I am a deep-water man, a "Daredevil" silver wobbler my lure for lake trout in midsummer.
Oh, I have tried the moon, thermometers— the bait and time and place all by the rule— fishing for the masterpiece, the imperial muskellunge in Minnesota, the peerless pike in Canada.
I have propped a well-thumbed book against the butt of my favorite rod and fished from my heart.
Yet, for my labors, all I have to show are tactics, lore— so little I know of that pea-sized brain I am casting for, to think it could swim with the phantom-words that lure me to this shore.
Written by Marvin Bell | Create an image from this poem


 Gray rainwater lay on the grass in the late afternoon.
The carp lay on the bottom, resting, while dusk took shape in the form of the first stirrings of his hunger, and the trees, shorter and heavier, breathed heavily upward.
Into this sodden, nourishing afternoon I emerged, partway toward a paycheck, halfway toward the weekend, carrying the last mail and holding above still puddles the books of noble ideas.
Through the fervent branches, carried by momentary breezes of local origin, the palpable Sublime flickered as motes on broad leaves, while the Higher Good and the Greater Good contended as sap on the bark of the maples, and even I was enabled to witness the truly Existential where it loitered famously in the shadows as if waiting for the moon.
All this I saw in the late afternoon in the company of no one.
And of course I went back to work the next morning.
Like you, like anyone, like the rumored angels of high office, like the demon foremen, the bedeviled janitors, like you, I returned to my job--but now there was a match-head in my thoughts.
In its light, the morning increasingly flamed through the window and, lit by nothing but mind-light, I saw that the horizon was an idea of the eye, gilded from within, and the sun the fiery consolation of our nighttimes, coming far.
Within this expectant air, which had waited the night indoors, carried by--who knows?--the rhythmic jarring of brain tissue by footsteps, by colors visible to closed eyes, by a music in my head, knowledge gathered that could not last the day, love and error were shaken as if by the eye of a storm, and it would not be until quitting that such a man might drop his arms, that he had held up all day since the dew.
Written by Ted Hughes | Create an image from this poem

The Warm and the Cold

 Freezing dusk is closing
 Like a slow trap of steel
On trees and roads and hills and all
 That can no longer feel.
But the carp is in its depth Like a planet in its heaven.
And the badger in its bedding Like a loaf in the oven.
And the butterfly in its mummy Like a viol in its case.
And the owl in its feathers Like a doll in its lace.
Freezing dusk has tightened Like a nut screwed tight On the starry aeroplane Of the soaring night.
But the trout is in its hole Like a chuckle in a sleeper.
The hare strays down the highway Like a root going deeper.
The snail is dry in the outhouse Like a seed in a sunflower.
The owl is pale on the gatepost Like a clock on its tower.
Moonlight freezes the shaggy world Like a mammoth of ice - The past and the future Are the jaws of a steel vice.
But the cod is in the tide-rip Like a key in a purse.
The deer are on the bare-blown hill Like smiles on a nurse.
The flies are behind the plaster Like the lost score of a jig.
Sparrows are in the ivy-clump Like money in a pig.
Such a frost The flimsy moon Has lost her wits.
A star falls.
The sweating farmers Turn in their sleep Like oxen on spits.
Written by Philip Levine | Create an image from this poem


 You pull over to the shoulder
 of the two-lane
road and sit for a moment wondering
 where you were going
in such a hurry.
The valley is burned out, the oaks dream day and night of rain that never comes.
At noon or just before noon the short shadows are gray and hold what little life survives.
In the still heat the engine clicks, although the real heat is hours ahead.
You get out and step cautiously over a low wire fence and begin the climb up the yellowed hill.
A hundred feet ahead the trunks of two fallen oaks rust; something passes over them, a lizard perhaps or a trick of sight.
The next tree you pass is unfamiliar, the trunk dark, as black as an olive's; the low branches stab out, gnarled and dull: a carob or a Joshua tree.
A sudden flaring-up ahead, a black-winged bird rises from nowhere, white patches underneath its wings, and is gone.
You hear your own breath catching in your ears, a roaring, a sea sound that goes on and on until you lean forward to place both hands -- fingers spread -- into the bleached grasses and let your knees slowly down.
Your breath slows and you know you're back in central California on your way to San Francisco or the coastal towns with their damp sea breezes you haven't even a hint of.
But first you must cross the Pacheco Pass.
People expect you, and yet you remain, still leaning forward into the grasses that if you could hear them would tell you all you need to know about the life ahead.
Out of a sense of modesty or to avoid the truth I've been writing in the second person, but in truth it was I, not you, who pulled the green Ford over to the side of the road and decided to get up that last hill to look back at the valley he'd come to call home.
I can't believe that man, only thirty-two, less than half my age, could be the person fashioning these lines.
That was late July of '60.
I had heard all about magpies, how they snooped and meddled in the affairs of others, not birds so much as people.
If you dared to remove a wedding ring as you washed away the stickiness of love or the cherished odors of another man or woman, as you turned away from the mirror having admired your new-found potency -- humming "My Funny Valentine" or "Body and Soul" -- to reach for a rough towel or some garment on which to dry yourself, he would enter the open window behind you that gave gratefully onto the fields and the roads bathed in dawn -- he, the magpie -- and snatch up the ring in his hard beak and shoulder his way back into the currents of the world on his way to the only person who could change your life: a king or a bride or an old woman asleep on her porch.
Can you believe the bird stood beside you just long enough, though far smaller than you but fearless in a way a man or woman could never be? An apparition with two dark and urgent eyes and motions so quick and precise they were barely motions at all? When he was gone you turned, alarmed by the rustling of oily feathers and the curious pungency, and were sure you'd heard him say the words that could explain the meaning of blond grasses burning on a hillside beneath the hands of a man in the middle of his life caught in the posture of prayer.
I'd heard that a magpie could talk, so I waited for the words, knowing without the least doubt what he'd do, for up ahead an old woman waited on her wide front porch.
My children behind her house played in a silted pond poking sticks at the slow carp that flashed in the fallen sunlight.
You are thirty-two only once in your life, and though July comes too quickly, you pray for the overbearing heat to pass.
It does, and the year turns before it holds still for even a moment.
Beyond the last carob or Joshua tree the magpie flashes his sudden wings; a second flames and vanishes into the pale blue air.
July 23, 1960.
I lean down closer to hear the burned grasses whisper all I need to know.
The words rise around me, separate and finite.
A yellow dust rises and stops caught in the noon's driving light.
Three ants pass across the back of my reddened right hand.
Everything is speaking or singing.
We're still here.

Written by Philip Levine | Create an image from this poem

In The New Sun

 Filaments of light 
slant like windswept rain.
The orange seller hawks into the sky, a man with a hat stops below my window and shakes his tassels.
Awake in Tetuan, the room filling with the first colors, and water running in a tub.
* A row of sparkling carp iced in the new sun, odor of first love, of childhood, the fingers held to the nose, or hours while the clock hummed.
The fat woman in the orange smock places tiny greens at mouth and tail as though she remembered or yearned instead for forests, deep floors of needles, and the hushed breath.
* Blue nosed cannisters as fat as barrels silently slipping by.
"Nitro," he says.
On the roof he shows me where Reuban lay down to ****-off and never woke.
"We're takin little whiffs all the time.
" Slivers of glass work their way through the canvas gloves and burn.
Lifting my black glasses in the chemical light, I stop to squeeze one out and the asbestos glows like a hand in moonlight or a face in dreams.
* Pinpoints of blue along the arms, light rushing down across the breasts missing the dry shadows under them.
She stretches and rises on her knees and smiles and far down to the sudden embroidery of curls the belly smiles that three times stretched slowly moonward in a hill of child.
* Sun through the cracked glass, bartender at the cave end peeling a hard-boiled egg.
Four in the afternoon, the dogs asleep, the river must bridge seven parched flats to Cordoba by nightfall.
It will never make it.
I will never make it.
Like the old man in gray corduroy asleep under the stifled fan, I have no more moves, stranded on an empty board.
* From the high hill behind Ford Rouge, we could see the ore boats pulling down river, the rail yards, and the smoking mountain.
East, the city spreading toward St.
Clair, miles of houses, factories, shops burning in the still white snow.
"Share this with your brother," he said, and it was always winter and a dark snow.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Ballad Of The Brand

 'Twas up in a land long famed for gold, where women were far and rare,
Tellus, the smith, had taken to wife a maiden amazingly fair;
Tellus, the brawny worker in iron, hairy and heavy of hand,
Saw her and loved her and bore her away from the tribe of a Southern land;
Deeming her worthy to queen his home and mother him little ones,
That the name of Tellus, the master smith, might live in his stalwart sons.
Now there was little of law in the land, and evil doings were rife, And every man who joyed in his home guarded the fame of his wife; For there were those of the silver tongue and the honeyed art to beguile, Who would cozen the heart from a woman's breast and damn her soul with a smile.
And there were women too quick to heed a look or a whispered word, And once in a while a man was slain, and the ire of the King was stirred; So far and wide he proclaimed his wrath, and this was the law he willed: "That whosoever killeth a man, even shall he be killed.
" Now Tellus, the smith, he trusted his wife; his heart was empty of fear.
High on the hill was the gleam of their hearth, a beacon of love and cheer.
High on the hill they builded their bower, where the broom and the bracken meet; Under a grave of oaks it was, hushed and drowsily sweet.
Here he enshrined her, his dearest saint, his idol, the light of his eye; Her kisses rested upon his lips as brushes a butterfly.
The weight of her arms around his neck was light as the thistle down; And sweetly she studied to win his smile, and gently she mocked his frown.
And when at the close of the dusty day his clangorous toil was done, She hastened to meet him down the way all lit by the amber sun.
Their dove-cot gleamed in the golden light, a temple of stainless love; Like the hanging cup of a big blue flower was the topaz sky above.
The roses and lilies yearned to her, as swift through their throng she pressed; A little white, fragile, fluttering thing that lay like a child on his breast.
Then the heart of Tellus, the smith, was proud, and sang for the joy of life, And there in the bronzing summertide he thanked the gods for his wife.
Now there was one called Philo, a scribe, a man of exquisite grace, Carved like the god Apollo in limb, fair as Adonis in face; Eager and winning in manner, full of such radiant charm, Womenkind fought for his favor and loved to their uttermost harm.
Such was his craft and his knowledge, such was his skill at the game, Never was woman could flout him, so be he plotted her shame.
And so he drank deep of pleasure, and then it fell on a day He gazed on the wife of Tellus and marked her out for his prey.
Tellus, the smith, was merry, and the time of the year it was June, So he said to his stalwart helpers: "Shut down the forge at noon.
Go ye and joy in the sunshine, rest in the coolth of the grove, Drift on the dreamy river, every man with his love.
" Then to himself: "Oh, Beloved, sweet will be your surprise; To-day will we sport like children, laugh in each other's eyes; Weave gay garlands of poppies, crown each other with flowers, Pull plump carp from the lilies, rifle the ferny bowers.
To-day with feasting and gladness the wine of Cyprus will flow; To-day is the day we were wedded only a twelvemonth ago.
" The larks trilled high in the heavens; his heart was lyric with joy; He plucked a posy of lilies; he sped like a love-sick boy.
He stole up the velvety pathway--his cottage was sunsteeped and still; Vines honeysuckled the window; softly he peeped o'er the sill.
The lilies dropped from his fingers; devils were choking his breath; Rigid with horror, he stiffened; ghastly his face was as death.
Like a nun whose faith in the Virgin is met with a prurient jibe, He shrank--'twas the wife of his bosom in the arms of Philo, the scribe.
Tellus went back to his smithy; he reeled like a drunken man; His heart was riven with anguish; his brain was brooding a plan.
Straight to his anvil he hurried; started his furnace aglow; Heated his iron and shaped it with savage and masterful blow.
Sparks showered over and round him; swiftly under his hand There at last it was finished--a hideous and infamous Brand.
That night the wife of his bosom, the light of joy in her eyes, Kissed him with words of rapture; but he knew that her words were lies.
Never was she so beguiling, never so merry of speech (For passion ripens a woman as the sunshine ripens a peach).
He clenched his teeth into silence; he yielded up to her lure, Though he knew that her breasts were heaving from the fire of her paramour.
"To-morrow," he said, "to-morrow"--he wove her hair in a strand, Twisted it round his fingers and smiled as he thought of the Brand.
The morrow was come, and Tellus swiftly stole up the hill.
Butterflies drowsed in the noon-heat; coverts were sunsteeped and still.
Softly he padded the pathway unto the porch, and within Heard he the low laugh of dalliance, heard he the rapture of sin.
Knew he her eyes were mystic with light that no man should see, No man kindle and joy in, no man on earth save he.
And never for him would it kindle.
The bloodlust surged in his brain; Through the senseless stone could he see them, wanton and warily fain.
Horrible! Heaven he sought for, gained it and gloried and fell-- Oh, it was sudden--headlong into the nethermost hell.
Was this he, Tellus, this marble? Tellus .
not dreaming a dream? Ah! sharp-edged as a javelin, was that a woman's scream? Was it a door that shattered, shell-like, under his blow? Was it his saint, that strumpet, dishevelled and cowering low? Was it her lover, that wild thing, that twisted and gouged and tore? Was it a man he was crushing, whose head he beat on the floor? Laughing the while at its weakness, till sudden he stayed his hand-- Through the red ring of his madness flamed the thought of the Brand.
Then bound he the naked Philo with thongs that cut in the flesh, And the wife of his bosom, fear-frantic, he gagged with a silken mesh, Choking her screams into silence; bound her down by the hair; Dragged her lover unto her under her frenzied stare.
In the heat of the hearth-fire embers he heated the hideous Brand; Twisting her fingers open, he forced its haft in her hand.
He pressed it downward and downward; she felt the living flesh sear; She saw the throe of her lover; she heard the scream of his fear.
Once, twice and thrice he forced her, heedless of prayer and shriek-- Once on the forehead of Philo, twice in the soft of his cheek.
Then (for the thing was finished) he said to the woman: "See How you have branded your lover! Now will I let him go free.
" He severed the thongs that bound him, laughing: "Revenge is sweet", And Philo, sobbing in anguish, feebly rose to his feet.
The man who was fair as Apollo, god-like in woman's sight, Hideous now as a satyr, fled to the pity of night.
Then came they before the Judgment Seat, and thus spoke the Lord of the Land: "He who seeketh his neighbor's wife shall suffer the doom of the Brand.
Brutish and bold on his brow be it stamped, deep in his cheek let it sear, That every man may look on his shame, and shudder and sicken and fear.
He shall hear their mock in the market-place, their fleering jibe at the feast; He shall seek the caves and the shroud of night, and the fellowship of the beast.
Outcast forever from homes of men, far and far shall he roam.
Such be the doom, sadder than death, of him who shameth a home.
Written by Thomas Hardy | Create an image from this poem

A Man (In Memory of H. of M.)


In Casterbridge there stood a noble pile, 
Wrought with pilaster, bay, and balustrade 
In tactful times when shrewd Eliza swayed.
- On burgher, squire, and clown It smiled the long street down for near a mile II But evil days beset that domicile; The stately beauties of its roof and wall Passed into sordid hands.
Condemned to fall Were cornice, quoin, and cove, And all that art had wove in antique style.
III Among the hired dismantlers entered there One till the moment of his task untold.
When charged therewith he gazed, and answered bold: "Be needy I or no, I will not help lay low a house so fair! IV "Hunger is hard.
But since the terms be such - No wage, or labour stained with the disgrace Of wrecking what our age cannot replace To save its tasteless soul - I'll do without your dole.
Life is not much! V Dismissed with sneers he backed his tools and went, And wandered workless; for it seemed unwise To close with one who dared to criticize And carp on points of taste: To work where they were placed rude men were meant.
VI Years whiled.
He aged, sank, sickened, and was not: And it was said, "A man intractable And curst is gone.
" None sighed to hear his knell, None sought his churchyard-place; His name, his rugged face, were soon forgot.
VII The stones of that fair hall lie far and wide, And but a few recall its ancient mould; Yet when I pass the spot I long to hold As truth what fancy saith: "His protest lives where deathless things abide!"
Written by Amy Lowell | Create an image from this poem

The Bombardment

 Slowly, without force, the rain drops into the 
It stops a moment on the carved head of Saint John, then slides on again, slipping and trickling over his stone cloak.
It splashes from the lead conduit of a gargoyle, and falls from it in turmoil on the stones in the Cathedral square.
Where are the people, and why does the fretted steeple sweep about in the sky? Boom! The sound swings against the rain.
Boom, again! After it, only water rushing in the gutters, and the turmoil from the spout of the gargoyle.
Ripples and mutters.
Boom! The room is damp, but warm.
Little flashes swarm about from the firelight.
The lustres of the chandelier are bright, and clusters of rubies leap in the bohemian glasses on the `etagere'.
Her hands are restless, but the white masses of her hair are quite still.
Boom! Will it never cease to torture, this iteration! Boom! The vibration shatters a glass on the `etagere'.
It lies there, formless and glowing, with all its crimson gleams shot out of pattern, spilled, flowing red, blood-red.
A thin bell-note pricks through the silence.
A door creaks.
The old lady speaks: "Victor, clear away that broken glass.
" "Alas! Madame, the bohemian glass!" "Yes, Victor, one hundred years ago my father brought it --" Boom! The room shakes, the servitor quakes.
Another goblet shivers and breaks.
Boom! It rustles at the window-pane, the smooth, streaming rain, and he is shut within its clash and murmur.
Inside is his candle, his table, his ink, his pen, and his dreams.
He is thinking, and the walls are pierced with beams of sunshine, slipping through young green.
A fountain tosses itself up at the blue sky, and through the spattered water in the basin he can see copper carp, lazily floating among cold leaves.
A wind-harp in a cedar-tree grieves and whispers, and words blow into his brain, bubbled, iridescent, shooting up like flowers of fire, higher and higher.
Boom! The flame-flowers snap on their slender stems.
The fountain rears up in long broken spears of dishevelled water and flattens into the earth.
Boom! And there is only the room, the table, the candle, and the sliding rain.
Again, Boom! -- Boom! -- Boom! He stuffs his fingers into his ears.
He sees corpses, and cries out in fright.
Boom! It is night, and they are shelling the city! Boom! Boom! A child wakes and is afraid, and weeps in the darkness.
What has made the bed shake? "Mother, where are you? I am awake.
" "Hush, my Darling, I am here.
" "But, Mother, something so ***** happened, the room shook.
" Boom! "Oh! What is it? What is the matter?" Boom! "Where is Father? I am so afraid.
" Boom! The child sobs and shrieks.
The house trembles and creaks.
Boom! Retorts, globes, tubes, and phials lie shattered.
All his trials oozing across the floor.
The life that was his choosing, lonely, urgent, goaded by a hope, all gone.
A weary man in a ruined laboratory, that is his story.
Boom! Gloom and ignorance, and the jig of drunken brutes.
Diseases like snakes crawling over the earth, leaving trails of slime.
Wails from people burying their dead.
Through the window, he can see the rocking steeple.
A ball of fire falls on the lead of the roof, and the sky tears apart on a spike of flame.
Up the spire, behind the lacings of stone, zigzagging in and out of the carved tracings, squirms the fire.
It spouts like yellow wheat from the gargoyles, coils round the head of Saint John, and aureoles him in light.
It leaps into the night and hisses against the rain.
The Cathedral is a burning stain on the white, wet night.
Boom! The Cathedral is a torch, and the houses next to it begin to scorch.
Boom! The bohemian glass on the `etagere' is no longer there.
Boom! A stalk of flame sways against the red damask curtains.
The old lady cannot walk.
She watches the creeping stalk and counts.
Boom! -- Boom! -- Boom! The poet rushes into the street, and the rain wraps him in a sheet of silver.
But it is threaded with gold and powdered with scarlet beads.
The city burns.
Quivering, spearing, thrusting, lapping, streaming, run the flames.
Over roofs, and walls, and shops, and stalls.
Smearing its gold on the sky, the fire dances, lances itself through the doors, and lisps and chuckles along the floors.
The child wakes again and screams at the yellow petalled flower flickering at the window.
The little red lips of flame creep along the ceiling beams.
The old man sits among his broken experiments and looks at the burning Cathedral.
Now the streets are swarming with people.
They seek shelter and crowd into the cellars.
They shout and call, and over all, slowly and without force, the rain drops into the city.
Boom! And the steeple crashes down among the people.
Boom! Boom, again! The water rushes along the gutters.
The fire roars and mutters.
Written by Carolyn Forche | Create an image from this poem

The Garden Shukkei-en

 By way of a vanished bridge we cross this river
as a cloud of lifted snow would ascend a mountain.
She has always been afraid to come here.
It is the river she most remembers, the living and the dead both crying for help.
A world that allowed neither tears nor lamentation.
The matsu trees brush her hair as she passes beneath them, as do the shining strands of barbed wire.
Where this lake is, there was a lake, where these black pine grow, there grew black pine.
Where there is no teahouse I see a wooden teahouse and the corpses of those who slept in it.
On the opposite bank of the Ota, a weeping willow etches its memory of their faces into the water.
Where light touches the face, the character for heart is written.
She strokes a burnt trunk wrapped in straw: I was weak and my skin hung from my fingertips like cloth Do you think for a moment we were human beings to them? She comes to the stone angel holding paper cranes.
Not an angel, but a woman where she once had been, who walks through the garden Shukkei-en calling the carp to the surface by clapping her hands.
Do Americans think of us? So she began as we squatted over the toilets: If you want, I'll tell you, but nothing I say will be enough.
We tried to dress our burns with vegetable oil.
Her hair is the white froth of rice rising up kettlesides, her mind also.
In the postwar years she thought deeply about how to live.
The common greeting dozo-yiroshku is please take care of me.
All hibakusha still alive were children then.
A cemetery seen from the air is a child's city.
I don't like this particular red flower because it reminds me of a woman's brain crushed under a roof.
Perhaps my language is too precise, and therefore difficult to understand? We have not, all these years, felt what you call happiness.
But at times, with good fortune, we experience something close.
As our life resembles life, and this garden the garden.
And in the silence surrounding what happened to us it is the bell to awaken God that we've heard ringing.