Once in his life a man ought to concentrate his mind upon <br />the remembered earth, I believe. He ought to give himself up <br />to a particular landscape in his experience, to look at it from <br />as many angles as he can, to wonder about it, to dwell upon <br />it. <br />He ought to imagine that he touches it with his hands at <br />every season and listens to the sounds that are made upon <br />it. He ought to imagine the creatures there and all the faintest <br />motions of the wind. He ought to recollect the glare of noon and <br />all the colors of the dawn and dusk. <br />For we are held by more than the force of gravity to the earth. <br />It is the entity from which we are sprung, and that into which <br />we are dissolved in time. The blood of the whole human race <br />is invested in it. We are moored there, rooted as surely, as <br />deeply as are the ancient redwoods and bristlecones.<br /><br />Navarre Scott Momaday<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-earth/
