Donald Davidson Quotes

“Then no soft arms could hold me from my wilderness
To reap at daylight's fallow edge, with bullet or knife,
That flicker of hoof or pelt, that flash of wings returning -
The dogs trace it - harvest of life that gives me life.”

“This is an autumn when they come no more.
Beech leaves yellow and fall, the beech-mast rots
Uneaten. Infertile now the beech
Hollows its heart, begetting naught.
There is frost on the grandson's eyes,
And only rumor upon the skies…”

“I want the word that burns into my heart
Like God's coal alive on the Prophet's tongue.
I would listen now while memory is ablaze
To seal your testament within my soul.”

“For he has seen a road by healing waters
Hushed into wintry slate against the sand,
And spoken there with the wind's elfin daughters,
And mingled in their dusty saraband.

He has known winds that blow from blossomy closes,
Rich with the fruity smell of summertide,
And kissed warm faery lips… Now he reposes,
While we are not quite certain he has died.”

“Father remembered the wild pigeons crowding
Beech groves, mast-rich. The flutter in boughs, the cloud
Darkening all, a hurricane circling and surging.
Eye lost count, ear could not measure sound.
Mind hurled measureless with them, feathered the sky.”

“The probing knife of madness
Can start a dullard brain;
Cold cheeks feel kisses
And warm with tears again”

“The whispering in the marrow spreads to the brain;
The remembering heart carries it round again
Till it beats in the throat, the lips, the weeping eye
And is born at last in a blazing wordless outcry.”

“We mourned with you then in brotherhood,
And I'll weep with you now for those whose names
Burn on your monuments like altar flames.”

“Farewell,
Army of Tennessee! Rough glory, rooted here,
Feeds the lone vow, the lingering touch
Of a late comrade sworn to remember you!
Lights glow from river and town. The darkness stabs.
And winter sweeps the undefended earth.”

“The seed of Appomattox blooms; its fruit
Rots where eyes are dazed with a hungry searching,
And ears are deaf with steps that murmur and follow
No command.”

“Why did my father write? I know he saw
History clutched as a wraith out of blowing mist
Where tongues are loud, and a glut of little souls
Laps at the too much blood and the burning house.”

“We, too, have names that blaze on mouldering stone
And I have seen men's tears fall where they slept
And heard a shouting while I wept,
A century off yet louder in my ear
Than all that's so much magnified and near.”

“Something stirs that once had life. It drops
Into the stream, a last act of faith.
Seedballs of sycamore, incautious leaves of willow,
These have outstayed their autumn, teasing death
Only so far, not yet beyond all patience.
Now they let go.”