Suddenly all the fountains in the park
Opened smoothly their umbrellas of water,
Yet there was none but me to miss or mark
Their peacock show, and so I moved away
Uneasily, like one who at a play
Finds himself all alone, and will not stay.
W. R. Rodgers, Awake! and Other Poems (Secker & Warburg 1941).
The poem struck me when I first came across it years ago, and it has stayed with me ever since. I have no desire to pick it apart in order to come to a conclusion as to what it "means." It is simply (but not so simply) a lovely thing, best left alone.
When out walking -- in any place, under any sky, at any time of day or night, in any season -- have you ever had the feeling that the World is too beautiful to bear?
John Quinton Pringle (1864-1925), "Springtime, Ardersier" (1923)
A few days after I visited "The Fountains," this appeared:
Just being here,
I am here,
And the snow falls.
Issa (1763-1827) (translated by R. H. Blyth), in R. H. Blyth, A History of Haiku, Volume 1 (Hokuseido Press 1963), page 359.
On a recent grey afternoon, a strong wind blew steadily when I took my afternoon walk beneath the trees. The boughs (still leafy, still mostly green, but not for long) tossed and roared overhead. It seemed as though some sort of denouement was close at hand. But I immediately realized I was mistaken. As I often do, I reminded myself to stop thinking. The World. There it is.
John Quinton Pringle, "The Window" (1924)