1
How perfect to be aboard a ship withmaybe a hundred years still in my pocket. But it's late, for all of us, and in truth the only ship there isis the ship we are all onburning the world as we go.Mary Oliver
2
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. .Mary Oliver
3
And now you'll be telling storiesof my coming backand they won't be false, and they won't be truebut they'll be realMary Oliver
4
The man who has many answersis often foundin the theaters of informationwhere he offers, graciously, his deep findings. While the man who has only questions, to comfort himself, makes music.Mary Oliver
5
The sea can do craziness, it can do smooth, it can lie down like silk breathing or toss havoc shoreward; it can give gifts or withhold all; it can rise, ebb, froth like an incoming frenzy of fountains, or it can sweet-talk entirely. As I can too, and so, no doubt, can you, and you.Mary Oliver
6
All night my heart makes its wayhowever it can over the rough groundof uncertainties, but only until nightmeets and then is overwhelmed bymorning, the light deepening, thewind easing and just waiting, as Itoo wait (and when have I ever beendisappointed?) for redbird to singMary Oliver