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๐‘Šโ„Ž๐‘Ž๐‘ก ๐‘‘๐‘–๐‘‘ ๐‘ฆ๐‘œ๐‘ข ๐‘›๐‘œ๐‘ก๐‘–๐‘๐‘’?
The dew-snail;
the low-flying sparrow;
the bat, on the wind, in the dark;
big-chested geese, in the V of sleekest performance;
the soft toad, patient in the hot sand;
the sweet-hungry ants;
the uproar of mice in the empty house;
the tin music of the cricketโ€™s body;
the blouse of the goldenrod.

๐‘Šโ„Ž๐‘Ž๐‘ก ๐‘‘๐‘–๐‘‘ ๐‘ฆ๐‘œ๐‘ข โ„Ž๐‘’๐‘Ž๐‘Ÿ?
The thrush greeting the morning;
the little bluebirds in their hot box;
the salty talk of the wren,
then the deep cup of the hour of silence.

๐‘Šโ„Ž๐‘’๐‘› ๐‘‘๐‘–๐‘‘ ๐‘ฆ๐‘œ๐‘ข ๐‘Ž๐‘‘๐‘š๐‘–๐‘Ÿ๐‘’?
The oaks, letting down their dark and hairy fruit;
the carrot, rising in its elongated waist;
the onion, sheet after sheet, curved inward to the pale green wand;
at the end of summer the brassy dust, the almost liquid beauty of the flowers;
then the ferns, scrawned black by the frost.

๐‘Šโ„Ž๐‘Ž๐‘ก ๐‘Ž๐‘ ๐‘ก๐‘œ๐‘›๐‘–๐‘ โ„Ž๐‘’๐‘‘ ๐‘ฆ๐‘œ๐‘ข?
The swallows making their dip and turn over the water.

๐‘Šโ„Ž๐‘Ž๐‘ก ๐‘ค๐‘œ๐‘ข๐‘™๐‘‘ ๐‘ฆ๐‘œ๐‘ข ๐‘™๐‘–๐‘˜๐‘’ ๐‘ก๐‘œ ๐‘ ๐‘’๐‘’ ๐‘Ž๐‘”๐‘Ž๐‘–๐‘›?
My dog: her energy and exuberance, her willingness,
her language beyond all nimbleness of tongue,
her recklessness, her loyalty, her sweetness,
her strong legs, her curled black lip, her snap.

๐‘Šโ„Ž๐‘Ž๐‘ก ๐‘ค๐‘Ž๐‘  ๐‘š๐‘œ๐‘ ๐‘ก ๐‘ก๐‘’๐‘›๐‘‘๐‘’๐‘Ÿ?
Queen Anneโ€™s lace, with its parsnip root;
the everlasting in its bonnets of wool;
the kinks and turns of the tupeloโ€™s body;
the tall, blank banks of sand;
the clam, clamped down.

๐‘Šโ„Ž๐‘Ž๐‘ก ๐‘ค๐‘Ž๐‘  ๐‘š๐‘œ๐‘ ๐‘ก ๐‘ค๐‘œ๐‘›๐‘‘๐‘’๐‘Ÿ๐‘“๐‘ข๐‘™?
The sea, and its wide shoulders;
the sea and its triangles;
the sea lying back on its long athleteโ€™s spine.

๐‘Šโ„Ž๐‘Ž๐‘ก ๐‘‘๐‘–๐‘‘ ๐‘ฆ๐‘œ๐‘ข ๐‘กโ„Ž๐‘–๐‘›๐‘˜ ๐‘ค๐‘Ž๐‘  โ„Ž๐‘Ž๐‘๐‘๐‘’๐‘›๐‘–๐‘›๐‘”?
The green beast of the hummingbird;
the eye of the pond;
the wet face of the lily;
the bright, puckered knee of the broken oak;
the red tulip of the foxโ€™s mouth;
the up-swing, the down-pour, the frayed sleeve of the first snowโ€”
so the gods shake us from our sleep.

๐†๐ซ๐š๐ญ๐ข๐ญ๐ฎ๐๐ž ๐›๐ฒ ๐Œ๐š๐ซ๐ฒ ๐Ž๐ฅ๐ข๐ฏ๐ž๐ซ

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Mediocrity means to go half way up the hill, half way in anything, never going to
the very top of the mountain or demanding all your energy, your capacity, never
demanding excellence.

Total Freedom: The Essential Krishnamurti

Wow, lines are beautiful.

I donโ€™t demand anything because who do I think I am to make demands? Nevertheless, to settle for less than excellence is execrable, soโ€ฆ

I thought the content of this poem was excellent, but the way she presented it was mediocre.