I was reading back through the literature book that I kept (whoops! teehee!) after my last community college class, and stopping at each of the many earmarked pages. This is possibly one of my very favorites.

What are Years?

What is our innocence,
what is our guilt? All are
naked, none is safe. And whence
is courage: the unanswered question,
the resolute doubt-
dumbly calling, deafly listening-that
in misfortune, even death,
encourages others
and in its defeat, stirs
the soul to be strong? He
sees deep and is glad, who
accedes to mortality
and in his imprisonment rises
upon himself as
the sea in a chasm, struggling to be
free and unable to be,
in its surrendering
find its continuing.

So he who strongly feels,
behaves. the very bird,
grows taller as he sings, steels
his form straight up. Though he is captive,
his mighty singing
says, satisfaction is a lowly
thing, how pure a thing is joy.
This is mortality,
this is eternity.
Marianne Moore



How pure a thing is joy. How pure a thing is joy! Joy, not happiness, not contentment- joy.