Awake the dawn that sleeps in heaven; let light rise from the chambers of the east and bring the honey’d dew that cometh on waking day. O radiant morning: salute the sun.

William Blake

I am with the roots

of flowers

entwined, entombed

sending up my passionate blossoms

as a flight of rockets

and argument;

wine churls my throat,

above me

feet walk upon my brain, monkies fall from the sky

clutching photographs

of the planets

but I seek only music

and the leisure

of my pain

Charles Bukowski

how small the day is
the time of colors
the rush of brightness

W.S. Merwin

I’ll walk where my own nature would be leading: it vexes me to choose another guide.

Emily Bronte

A blue horse turns into a streak of lightning,
then the sun –
relating the difference between sadness
and the need to praise
that which makes us joyful, I can’t calculate
how the earth tips hungrily
toward the sun – then soaks up rain – or the density
of this unbearable need
to be next to you. It’s a palpable thing – this earth
philosophy
and familiar in the dark
like your skin under my hand. We are a small earth. It’s no
simple thing. Eventually
we will be dust together; can be used to make a house, to stop
a flood or grow food
for those who will never remember who we were, or know
that we loved fiercely.
Laughter and sadness eventually become the same song turning us
toward the nearest star –
a star constructed of eternity and elements of dust barely visible
in the twilight as you travel
east. I run with the blue horses of electricity who surround
the heart
and imagine a promise made when no promise was possible.

Joy Harjo