“One must think like a hero to behave like a merely decent
human being.” – May
Sarton
Sarton is one of
my all-time favorite poets and always seems like the perfect poet to feature
during the first week of May. Born on
May 3, 1912, in Belgium she emigrated with her family to the U.S. during
WWI. 
May began writing in 1931 and
really never stopped until her death at age 83. In the process she wrote 53
books – 19 novels, 17 books of poetry, 15 nonfiction works and 2 children's
books – plus a play and many additional screenplays. For the full impact of a wonderful
poetic writer, slowly read aloud her Saturday’s Poem,
May began writing in 1931 and
really never stopped until her death at age 83. In the process she wrote 53
books – 19 novels, 17 books of poetry, 15 nonfiction works and 2 children's
books – plus a play and many additional screenplays. For the full impact of a wonderful
poetic writer, slowly read aloud her Saturday’s Poem,
The Work of Happiness
I thought of happiness, how it is
woven
Out of the silence in the empty
house each day
And how it is not sudden and it is
not given
But is creation itself like the
growth of a tree.
No one has seen it happen, but
inside the bark
Another circle is growing in the
expanding ring.
No one has heard the root go deeper
in the dark,
The tree is lifted by this inward
work.
And its plumes shine, and its leaves
are glittering.
So happiness is woven out of the
peace of hours
And strikes its roots deep in the
house alone:
The old chest in the corner, cool
waxed floors,
White curtains softly and
continually blown
As the free air moves quietly about
the room;
A shelf of books, a table, and the
white-washed wall—
These are the dear familiar gods of
home,
And here the work of faith can best
be done,
The growing tree is green and
musical.
For what is happiness but growth in
peace,
The timeless sense of time when
furniture
Has stood a life's span in a single
place,
And as the air moves, so the old
dreams stir
The shining leaves of present
happiness?
No one has heard thought or listened
to a mind,
But where people have lived in
inwardness
The air is charged with blessing and
does bless;
Windows look out on mountains and
the walls are kind.
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