I think Wallace Stevens wrote this about me.

From "Sunday Morning":

"Complacencies of the peignoir, and late

Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,

And the freedom of a cockatoo

Upon a rug mingle to dissipate

The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.

She dreams a little, and she feels the dark

Encroachment of that old catastrophe,

As a calm darkens among the water-lights.

The pungent oranges and bright, green wings

Seem things in some procession of the dead,

Winding across the wide water, without sound.

The day is like wide water, without sound,

Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet

Over the seas, to silent Palestine,

Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.

Why should she give her bounty to the dead?

What is divinity if it can come

Only in silent shadows and in dreams?

Shall she not find comforts in the sun,

In pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else

In any balm or beauty of the earth,

Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?

Divinity must life within herself:

Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;

Grievings in lonelieness, or unsubdued

Elations on wet roads on autumn nights;

All pleasures and all pains, remembering

The bough of summer and the winter branch.

These are the measures destined for her soul."

The italics were my doing. I'm loving modern poetry right now. I'm becoming more and more drawn into seeing God in the earth and in humanity (at the risk of sounding like a hippie). Hooray for hedonism. And it reminds me of that quote by D.H. Lawrence I used a while back, where he says he worships God through...his love of whatever, whether that is through poetry or through another person. How much more beautiful is this than hands nailed on a cross?