Human Guest House

This being human is a guest house;
Every morning a new arrival;

The joy of the depression a meanness;
some momentary awareness comes;
as an unexpected visitor;

Welcome and entertain them all;
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows;
who violently sweep your house;
empty of its furniture;

Still, treat each guest honourably;
He may be clearing you out;
For some new delight;
The dark thought, the shame, the malice;

Meet them at the door laughing and invite them in;
Be grateful for whatever comes;
Because each has been sent;
As a guide from beyond;

  • Sangavi
  • Being In Love is Being in the second life of the fantasy; I keep myself drunk in poems where I live a life of all the poets;
    Emily Dickinson, ‘Much Madness Is Divinest Sense.’
    Anonymous, ‘Fowls in the Frith.’ This poem, which is around 800 years old, is ambiguous
    Oliver Goldsmith, ‘An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog.’

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