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This echoes what I've been so often saying myself recently. Sometimes the world has a theme. :-) (And I like having a job where these things quietly appear on my desk.)
The Well of Grief, by David Whyte
Those who will not slip beneath the still surface
Of the well of grief,
Turning down through the black water
To the place we cannot breathe,
Will never know the source from which we drink
The secret water, cold and clear,
Nor find in the darkness glimmering the small round coins
Thrown by those who wished for something else.
The Well of Grief, by David Whyte
Those who will not slip beneath the still surface
Of the well of grief,
Turning down through the black water
To the place we cannot breathe,
Will never know the source from which we drink
The secret water, cold and clear,
Nor find in the darkness glimmering the small round coins
Thrown by those who wished for something else.
