Mary Oliver

"If you’re John Muir you want trees tolive among. If you’re Emily, a garden will do. Try to find the right place for yourself. If you can’t find it, at least dream of it. When one is alone and lonely, the body gladly lingers in the wind or the rain, or splashes into the cold river, or pushes through the ice-crusted snow. Anything that touches. God, or the gods, are invisible, quite understandable. But holiness is visible, entirely."

"Sleeping In The Forest I thought the earth remembered me,she took me back so tenderly,arranging her dark skirts, her pocketsfull of lichens and seeds. I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,nothing between me and the white fire of the starsbut my thoughts, and they floated light as mothsamong the branches of the perfect trees. All night I heard the small kingdomsbreathing around me, the insects,and the birds who do their work in the darkness. All night I rose and fell, as if in water,grappling with a luminous doom. By morning I had vanished at least a dozen timesinto something better."

"from the poem Hum, Hum The resurrection of the morning. The mystery of the night. The hummingbird's wings. The excitement of thunder. The rainbow in the waterfall. Wild mustard, that rough blaze of the fields."

"When it's over, I want to say: all my life I was a bride married to amazement. I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms. When it is over, I don't want to wonderif I have made of my life something particular, and real. I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,or full of argument. I don't want to end up simply having visited this world."

"In Our Woods, Sometimes a Rare Music Every spring I hear the thrush singingin the glowing woodshe is only passing through. His voice is deep,then he lifts it until it seemsto fall from the sky. I am thrilled. I am grateful. Then, by the end of morning,he's gone, nothing but silenceout of the treewhere he rested for a night. And this I find acceptable. Not enough is a poor life. But too much is, well, too much. Imagine Verdi or Mahlerevery day, all day. It would exhaust anyone."

"I read the way a person might swim, to save his or her life. I wrote that way too."

"The poet dreams of the mountain Sometimes I grow weary of the days, with all their fits and starts. I want to climb some old gray mountains, slowly, taking The rest of my lifetime to do it, resting often, sleeping Under the pines or, above them, on the unclothed rocks. I want to see how many stars are still in the sky That we have smothered for years now, a century at least. I want to look back at everything, forgiving it all,And peaceful, knowing the last thing there is to know. All that urgency! Not what the earth is about!How silent the trees, their poetry being of themselves only. I want to take slow steps, and think appropriate thoughts. In ten thousand years, maybe, a piece of the mountain will fall."

"Snow was falling, so much like stars filling the dark trees that one could easily imagine its reason for being was nothing more than prettiness."

"I Go Down To The Shore I go down to the shore in the morningand depending on the hour the wavesare rolling in or moving out,and I say, oh, I am miserable,what shall—what should I do? And the sea saysin its lovely voice:Excuse me, I have work to do."

"If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happened better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb. (Don't Hesitate)"

"The Fourth Sign of The Zodiac (Part 3) by Mary Oliver I know, you never intended to be in this world. But you’re in it all the same. So why not get started immediately. I mean, belonging to it. There is so much to admire, to weep over. And to write music or poems about. Bless the feet that take you to and fro. Bless the eyes and the listening ears. Bless the tongue, the marvel of taste. Bless touching. You could live a hundred years, it’s happened. Or not. I am speaking from the fortunate platformof many years,none of which, I think, I ever wasted. Do you need a prod?Do you need a little darkness to get you going?Let me be as urgent as a knife, then,and remind you of Keats,so single of purpose and thinking, for a while,he had a lifetime. Mary oliver"

"“Love Sorrow Love sorrow. She is yours now, and you musttake care of what has beengiven. Brush her hair, help herinto her little coat, hold her hand,especially when crossing a street. For, think,what if you should lose her? Then you would besorrow yourself; her drawn face, her sleeplessnesswould be yours. Take care, touchher forehead that she feel herself not soutterly alone. And smile, that she does notaltogether forget the world before the lesson. Have patience in abundance. And do notever lie or ever leave her even for a momentby herself, which is to say, possibly, again,abandoned. She is strange, mute, difficult,sometimes unmanageable but, remember, she is a child. And amazing things can happen. And you may see,as the two of you gowalking together in the morning light, howlittle by little she relaxes; she looks about her;she begins to grow.”"

"“The poet dreams of the mountain Sometimes I grow weary of the days, with all their fits and starts. I want to climb some old gray mountains, slowly, taking The rest of my lifetime to do it, resting often, sleeping Under the pines or, above them, on the unclothed rocks. I want to see how many stars are still in the sky That we have smothered for years now, a century at least. I want to look back at everything, forgiving it all,And peaceful, knowing the last thing there is to know. All that urgency! Not what the earth is about!How silent the trees, their poetry being of themselves only. I want to take slow steps, and think appropriate thoughts. In ten thousand years, maybe, a piece of the mountain will fall.”"

"“Last Night the Rain Spoke to Me Last nightthe rainspoke to meslowly, saying,what joyto come fallingout of the brisk cloud,to be happy againin a new wayon the earth!That’s what it saidas it dropped,smelling of iron,and vanishedlike a dream of the oceaninto the branchesand the grass below. Then it was over. The sky cleared. I was standingunder a tree. The tree was a treewith happy leaves,and I was myself,and there were stars in the skythat were also themselvesat the moment,at which momentmy right handwas holding my left handwhich was holding the treewhich was filled with starsand the soft rain—imagine! imagine!the wild and wondrous journeysstill to be ours.”"

"“I Worried I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the riversflow in the right direction, will the earth turnas it was taught, and if not how shall I correct it?Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,can I do better?Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrowscan do it and I am, well,hopeless. Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,am I going to get rheumatism,lockjaw, dementia?Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing. And gave it up. And took my old bodyand went out into the morning,and sang.”"

"“From the complications of loving you I think there is no end or return. No answer, no coming out of it. Which is the only way to love, isn’t it?This isn’t a play ground, this isearth, our heaven, for a while. Therefore I have given precedenceto all my sudden, sullen, dark moodsthat hold you in the center of my world. And I say to my body: grow thinner still. And I say to my fingers, type me a pretty song. And I say to my heart: rave on.”"

"“In Blackwater Woods Look, the treesare turningtheir own bodiesinto pillarsof light,are giving off the richfragrance of cinnamonand fulfillment,the long tapersof cattailsare bursting and floating away overthe blue shouldersof the ponds,and every pond,no matter what itsname is, isnameless now. Every yeareverything I have ever learnedin my lifetimeleads back to this: the firesand the black river of losswhose other sideis salvation,whose meaningnone of us will ever know. To live in this worldyou must be ableto do three things:to love what is mortal;to hold itagainst your bones knowingyour own life depends on it;and, when the time comes to let it go,to let it go.”"

"“Poetry is a life-cherishing force. For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.”"

"“The Poet With His Face In His Hands You want to cry aloud for your mistakes. But to tell the truth the world doesn’t need anymore of that sound. So if you’re going to do it and can’t stop yourself, if your pretty mouth can’t hold it in, at least go by yourself acrossthe forty fields and the forty dark inclines of rocks and water to the place where the falls are flinging out their white sheetslike crazy, and there is a cave behind all that jubilation and water fun and you can stand there, under it, and roar all youwant and nothing will be disturbed; you can drip with despair all afternoon and still, on a green branch, its wings just lightly touchedby the passing foil of the water, the thrush, puffing out its spotted breast, will sing of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.”"

"“I Go Down To The Shore I go down to the shore in the morningand depending on the hour the wavesare rolling in or moving out,and I say, oh, I am miserable,what shall—what should I do? And the sea saysin its lovely voice:Excuse me, I have work to do.”"