Keep Squeezing Drops Of The Sun

Keep Squeezing Drops Of The Sun

I know the voice of depression 
still calls to you.

I know that habits that can ruin 
still send their invitations. 

But keep squeezing drops of the Sun

from your prayers and work and music
and from your companions' beautiful laughter 

from the sacred hands and knowing glance
of your Beloved,

from actions of delight and freedom 
and Love,

from the most insignificant movements 
of your own holy body, 

keep squeezing drops of the Sun. 

        Below are selections from William Wordsworth's Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood, I think the paint a tremendous picture of the astonishment that can be lost as we transition from child to adult. Sometimes, this unknown loss adds to our perceived misfortune. 

THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 

The earth, and every common sight, 

To me did seem 

Apparell'd in celestial light, 

The glory and the freshness of a dream. 

It is not now as it hath been of yore;— 

Turn wheresoe'er I may, 

By night or day, 

The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 

The rainbow comes and goes, 

And lovely is the rose; 

The moon doth with delight 

Look round her when the heavens are bare; 

Waters on a starry night 

Are beautiful and fair; 

The sunshine is a glorious birth; 

But yet I know, where'er I go, 

That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth. 

Ye blessèd creatures, I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make; I see 

The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; 

My heart is at your festival, 

My head hath its coronal, 

The fullness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all. 

O evil day! if I were sullen 

While Earth herself is adorning, 

This sweet May-morning, 

And the children are culling 

On every side, 

In a thousand valleys far and wide, 

Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, 

And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm:— 

I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! 

—But there's a tree, of many, one, 

A single field which I have look'd upon, 

Both of them speak of something that is gone: 

The pansy at my feet 

Doth the same tale repeat:

Whither is fled the visionary gleam? 

Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

Eternal Rain Drop from Warrior of Light Blog