Poetry is a fireplace in summer or a fan in winter.
Robert HassRead
Sometimes from this hillside just after sunset The rim of the sky takes on a tinge Of the palest green, like the flesh of a cucumber When you peel it carefully.
Interpretation
The quote describes a beautiful and fleeting moment in nature, highlighting the delicate colors visible at sunset.
In this quote, Robert Hass captures the enchanting beauty of a sunset from a hillside, comparing the soft green hues of the sky to the tender flesh of a cucumber. It evokes an appreciation for natural wonders and the subtle details in the world around us, encouraging mindfulness and reflection on such ephemeral moments.
In practice
This quote can be used in a speech about the importance of appreciating nature's beauty.
Poetry is a fireplace in summer or a fan in winter.
Take the time to write. You can do your life's work in half an hour a day.
I think that the job of poetry, its political job, is to refresh the idea of justice, which is going dead in us all the time.
There are moments when the body is as numinous as words, days that are the good flesh continuing. Such tenderness, those afternoons and evenings, saying blackberry, blackberry, blackberry.
When I was younger, I was so crazy about poetry that I didn't notice who was noticing. It seemed to me so tremendous and large.
Writing is an incessant process of discovery.
I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contained, I stand and look at them long and long.
When they turned off, it was still early in the pink and green fields. The fumes of morning, sweet and bitter, sprang up where they walked. The insects ticked softly, their strength in reserve; butterflies chopped the air, going to the east, and the birds flew carelessly and sang by fits and starts, not the way they did in the evening in sustained and drowsy songs.
The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over the harbor_x000D_ _x000D_ and city on silent haunches and then moves on.
For nature gives to every time and season some beauties of its own; and from morning to night, as from the cradle to the grave, it is but a succession of changes so gentle and easy that we can scarcely mark their progress.
For myself I hold no preferences among flowers, so long as they are wild, free, spontaneous. Bricks to all greenhouses! Black thumb and cutworm to the potted plant!
It's a moral question about whether we have the right to exterminate species.
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